'I do not own Sherlock.
Feedback is much appreciated.
'God' John thought, getting out of the cab that had stopped outside an unobtrusive black door attached to a non-descript townhouse with a little sandwich bar that never seemed to have any customers.
The former army doctor stood, blank faced as the cabbie drove off. He was returning to 221b Baker Street for what was perhaps the third time in the last three and a half months to grab a few bits, he'd been living out of bags, crashing on Harry's couch when he wasn't working himself to exhaustion at the hospital not Bart's.
Not that working himself to the point that his muscles shook with fatigue and the room span in sickening circles helped much, the nightmares still came. Thick and fast and so overwhelming he felt like he was drowning and it wasn't uncommon for him to wake, drenched in sweat and vomit up whatever paltry 'meal' he'd knocked up, half a slice of toast his preferred delicacy lately.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock, stood on that ledge, denouncing himself as a fraud and breaking John's heart, he re-lived the gut clenching agony as his best friend stepped off the stone ledge, plummeting down, trade-mark coat flapping about him in a vile mockery of wings and the shock when Sherlock collided with the- no, he wouldn't think about that, he couldn't.
He wasn't going to break down again.
This was the first time he'd returned alone, the first time, Molly had gone with him, Lestrade the second, and even though Harry offered to come with them, he needed to do this alone. Taking a deep, steadying breath John approached the door, pulling out the cute smiley face key got him after he misplaced his regular one for the billionth time and unlocked the door, twisting the key in the familiar pattern of three turns right, once left and two right again –it was a lock of Sherlock's own design after the madness in the Blind Banker-.
Pushing the black painted door open, the spicy scent of Sherlock cologne hit him full force and he reeled back, eyes filling with tears as his chest tightened and he struggled to regain control of his breathing.
The hall was dark and cold, and he couldn't hear Mrs. Hudson singing along to her little wireless as she pottered about not being their housekeeper. His hand crept out to rest lightly against the wall as memories assaulted him;
Him and Sherlock resting against the wall after running through London after chasing a terrified American tourist
Sherlock helping him up the stairs after one too many pints
Him carrying a drugged Sherlock up the stairs, the genius singing something loud and crude and entirely inappropriate
As he ascended the stairs, more and more memories of their time together rushed to the surface all the times they'd come home, laughing raciously after being chased through the city streets, or sharing witty comments on things that really, they shouldn't joke about –him assaulting the chief superintendent of Scotland Yard being one of the many, many things on that list- them rushing down the stairs when a new exciting case came up that Sherlock just couldn't resist, grabbing coats and yelling their departure to Mrs. Hudson who would sigh fondly and shake her head, always with the same parting message
"Be careful boys!"
It felt like so long ago that he'd walked into the little flat, an eternity since he'd jumped across roof tops and sat in quaint little restaurants run by former criminals, denying any romantic involvement -with the admittedly attractive man.
Every step towards their home, brought a wave of memories and the smell of bow oil, spicy cologne and chemicals rolled over him and for one moment, he could almost convince himself that when he reached the landing, Sherlock would be sat at the table, hunched over the microscope talking to him as if he were still in the room.
When he finally reaches the landing, John nearly turns tail and runs but his army training serves him well, and he strides forward, almost on autopilot. Nothing has changed physically the flat's still the chaotic mess of books, lab equipment and various 'tools' of Sherlock's metaphorical 'trade' but the life has gone out of it, and he sounds cliché even to him, but without Sherlock pacing, or deducting or just flat out shooting things the flat is dull and lifeless and John has never seen the place so empty.
John gets all the way to Sherlock's chair before he breaks, but when he does, his sobs are heart-wrenching, they're the lamenting tears of the shattered and the torn, those who have lost lovers and children and family long before their time. His knees buckle and John hasn't got the strength to catch himself, and he connects with the floor with a painful thud, not that he felt it the pain in his heart far outweighs the sting of his knees.
It feels like hours before Molly comes, and he's spent the entire time cycling between hysterics and anger, the likes of which he hasn't felt since he treated abused kids in the war.
When Molly does appear, he's hit a bout of tears and the sweet morgue tech rushes to his side, wrapping her slender and surprisingly strong arms around his shoulders, hugging him tight as he wails, shaking and struggling for breath.
By the time she manages to coax John into a chair, it's nearly dark and she sends a discreet text to Greg Lestrade, asking for him to come and pick them up.
For all her seeming dizziness, Molly Hooper is incredibly bright and she knows –better than most- how much it hurts to lose the one you love and so she sits, and she sings to him stroking his hair, just like her mother did when she had a nightmare as a child. She can't help but notice how thin and drawn the man looks, more like one of the wraiths he'd told her about from one of his favourite books, than an actual human being, and she hates Sherlock in that moment. Hates him for breaking the incredibly strong man in front of her, hated him because he left and because for a genius, he's painfully stupid.
Greg appears not long after Molly texts him, and he feels his heart break when he sees the state of the doctor, whose exhaustion had caught up with him and was dozing lightly, face twisted in an anguished grimace.
He rouses the man gently, and between them, he and Molly manage to get John downstairs and into the car before the tears start again and as they pull away, Lestrade looks up to the flat directly opposite, and for a moment, he swears he's seen Sherlock in the window, but when he looks again, there's nothing there and he convinces himself it's a trick of the imagination, because he misses the infuriating genius who always came through with a brilliant and often painfully obvious –once he thought about it- explanation to a baffling crime.
As the car rolled away, an unheard voice whispered;
"I'm sorry, John"