John had taken to plugging his mobile in the wall socket near his bed. That way he could place the phone on the bed beside his pillow and have it within reach. He hadn't slept proper in months and it was often in those quiet moments alone that he felt like he might overflow. Everything could be perfectly fine, and then something would remind John of him. Fine to falling with one swift motion. Something simple like the sound of a siren outside would remind him of the sound of Lestrade pulling up in a squad car and Sherlock watching through the curtains, rarely making movement to pull them aside. Sometimes the thought of having to do laundry would spark the descent, as John would immediately be reminded that he'd only be doing his own. Even the sight of a forgotten tea cup could set him off.
In these moments his hand would unconsciously reach for the phone, fingers sliding around to feel the inscription left for Harry a million years ago. The light from the screen would switch on and black out the rest of his bedroom. That way only John and the phone existed in the world (though he often could feel something looming in the darkness). He'd check his messages, and every single time he'd have a flash of anticipation. This unrelenting hope, and belief made it impossible for him to move on. Seeing nothing John would be crushed once again, spiralling deeper into the circle of grief.
Laying stiff in bed, eyes wide and blind in the dark, tonight was one of the bad nights. Over and over he would ask himself the same question. Why couldn't he just move on like a regular person? Why did he keep thinking he was alive? Why had he made him watch? John cursed himself over and over, hating this part of himself. The part of him that kept hoping, kept believing. Everyone else was moving on, into the acceptance stage, but John was barely out of denial. For some reason it wasn't possible Sherlock was gone. The words haunted him now: "Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be true." By all means of logic Sherlock was dead. John didn't know what to think. He just wanted Sherlock gone from his mind; cut out like cancer.
A clock was ticking somewhere, so John knew the world was still somehow moving along. The stillness ebbed at him. So far tonight he had yet to look at the phone. The dark room was like a weight over him, and tentatively he shifted his legs. He stretched them slowly under the thick blanket. One leg straightened easily, there was no resistance, and it felt nice to stretch out. The other leg strained. He couldn't quite pick out where the pain was coming from; the thigh, the calf, the ankle, maybe all of it. No matter how hard he tried John couldn't focus on his good leg. The ache was too strong. Curling them back up again, his moment of distraction was gone.
"Not tonight," he told himself. "There's nothing there, you're not looking at that bloody phone. He fell from the roof, John. You saw his face. The blood on the sidewalk. You've seen his grave." John pressed his palms into his eye sockets. Repeating the facts. Reciting the autopsy report. Replaying the phone call. The words hung in his mind, swaying, taunting, spinning like a record on constant loop.
Eventually he started to drift off, quickly getting stuck in torn up emotional dreams. They never made sense, but they always had the same feeling. It was like watching him fall every night, and waking up hoping it was really all a dream. His traumas had always haunted him in sleep, taking away the few moments that were supposed to be relief.
In this dream he was pacing his bedroom, Sherlock in danger, and John was the only one who could save him. It was an anxious and hopeless feeling. He was frantic trying to think. Sherlock always told him to think, really think, but his mind was cloudy and slow. Then all at once the dream shifted and he knew Sherlock was all right, and the door clicked open behind him. He flipped around and there he was safe and sound, giving him that same mischievous look he always had.
John woke up, swearing he had heard the door. Half awake he flipped over and squinted at the door. It looked like it was closing, and as he wavered between consciousness and dream state he thought he heard it click close.
"Wake up, you sod. Wake up, he's here. It's him!" But the more awake he became, the more he realized how wrong he was. It was the dream playing tricks on him. The door was exactly how he'd left it, and there was no way a ghost could open a door. Over and over he told himself this. It wasn't quite working too well until as a last resort he snatched for the phone, turned it on and...
"There," he choked aloud, "you fucking idiot. There's nothing bloody there. He's gone. He. Is. Gone." He could feel everything boiling up now. Everything he'd managed to avoid all night. John's breathing grew quick and shallow. He moved quick. A shaking hand pulled the heavy duvet over his head, muffling the sob that gripped him tightly by the throat. From behind the door the quiet detective listened, eyes focused intently on the floor boards.
With a cold wind pulling them forward the Holmes brothers approached the stone marked "Sherlock" and stopped. In the 6 months since his "death" they'd spent more time conversing than in the 5 years previous. Mycroft loved it, Sherlock did not.
"That was too close today Sherlock." Mycroft scolded, breaking the silence between them. There wasn't an immediate response. Sherlock reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cigarette. Being dead had less rules, so smoking was back on the agenda. Sherlock had always pictured what would happen once he died, and now watching it was, at times, unbearable. He propped the cigarette in between full lips and for the first time that evening glanced to his brother. Mycroft already had the silver lighter in hand, and with a click there was a small flame. It lit the space between them, illuminating Sherlock's blue eyes.
Dragging the smoke in, he held it, and as he exhaled the words, "I know," seemed to float amidst the smoke.
"You can't keep pushing the limits like this. Either you stay away completely or tell him." Mycroft was staring at Sherlock, and Sherlock at the grave. The two said nothing else for the rest of the evening, and Sherlock left behind nothing but a cigarette butt. He kept hoping John would notice them, but John didn't visit anymore.