Shock... You're in shock... That's what they told him. Shock. It didn't feel like shock... It felt like someone had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart. Emptiness. He locked it away; used the same technique he learned on the battlefield to block out his fear and anxiety while trying to treat his fellow soldiers. Only this time he couldn't shut it off. He couldn't explain it, but he knew if he did something would shatter beyond repair and that wasn't allowed, not yet. He had a job he had to complete. He wanted to prove to the world that he wasn't a fraud.
He left his feelings locked away for too long, though. He started to forget. Ella would tell him it was a coping mechanism if he'd bothered to ask. He didn't forget everything though; just the effects but not the causes. He remembered the sprained wrist but not how it happened. He remembered getting food poisoning in Brussels but not why he was there. He thought Harry had visited, but the reason was lost him. She called him now, at least once a week. Something was always left unspoken when she did. He was afraid to ask what it was. The pocket watch was the most puzzling thing about it all. He couldn't remember where he'd gotten it from. It was obviously something of value and he attached it to his trousers every morning despite not knowing why he did it. On some level, it was a comfort to attach the chain each day, as if the watch was acting as a sort of anchor.
He wandered around in a daze those first weeks. Likely it was from a lack of sleep. He missed his friend, the excitement that he had brought into John's life. One day, he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings, he was so distracted. He hadn't meant to step off the sidewalk into the path of a lorry but it seemed that no matter how vehemently he argued it, no one would believe him. Greg had laid into him hard for that one. Mrs. Hudson had spent the next several days checking in on him almost obsessively, popping by at random times unannounced. He knew she was worried about him but he really wasn't a danger to himself.
His waking mind granted him some small reprieve. It didn't trouble him with painful emotions, with sentiment. He was numb while he was awake, for the most part. But when he dreamt, it was as if the two parts of his conscious were waging a war. He never remembered the details, though he could guess their general theme based on his state when he awoke. It was odd actually, that he didn't remember the specifics. He always remembered the exact details upon waking from a nightmare about Afghanistan. But there was something different about these dreams.
Most times, he woke drenched in sweat and tears, a great sob ripping its way out of his chest. He curled in on himself when this happened and let his grief overcome him. After he cried himself out, he roused himself long enough to wash his face and make a cup of tea. He sat in his chair and stared at the empty one in front of him. Those were the nights he assumed he dreamt of Sherlock's death.
Sometimes he awoke with a shout of rage and the overwhelming urge to hit something. He never knew who that anger was directed at. He would like to say he was angry with Mycroft for giving Moriarty everything he needed to destroy him. He knew he felt nothing but contempt for Moriarty, the bastard, may he rot in hell. Perhaps it was himself he was shouting at, though, for not noticing that something was wrong or doing more to prevent his death.
Those emotions, those feelings of pain and anger, he knew how to deal with them; could explain them away. But then there were the other instances; the times he awoke and could not explain why he felt the way he did.
There were some rare mornings that he woke painfully aroused and desperate for release. He'd made the mistake, only once, of taking himself in hand to completion. His orgasm left him feeling empty and unfulfilled. It felt wrong. Whatwasworse was the utter despair he felt afterward, as if his heart were being ripped in two. So now he simply stood beneath the cold spray of the shower until his skin was covered in gooseflesh and his teeth were chattering. It couldn't wash away the emptiness, though. Even if he didn't touch himself, he still felt hollowed out for days after each occurrence. For the longest time, he couldn't figure out why he kept waking up like that. It wasn't a normal reaction to the death of a friend, but who could he talk to about such a thing? Certainly not Ella or any of his friends; there is only so much a bloke can talk about with his mates before it begins to grow uncomfortable. So he resolved himself to struggle through them as best he could and hope that they would continue their pattern of infrequency.
Then one morning after he'd moved away from Baker Street, it seems the war had ended and his consciousness decided he was ready to remember.
Warm bodies moving together, murmured words and promises made with hopeful hearts. The gentle brush of soft lips over sensitive skin. A voice "John..." and it's familiar, a deep rumbling baritone. There's a face hovering over me, with eyes soft and full of love. Hands touching, caressing "Please John—" Our movements faster, moaning, hearts pounding, closer and-
"Sherlock!" He woke to his body trembling from his release and a dead man's name on his lips. And it was then that he remembered. He remembered everything. And he wept for the man he loved, the one he'd given his heart to. John knew then that one day, he would eventually heal and move on. He wanted John to be happy, after all. He wouldn't want him to spend the rest of his life mourning his lost lover. At least that's what John told himself Sherlock would want. But he also knew that his heart would never be whole again, not completely, since the one carrying it was no longer able to return it to him. There would forever be a hole in his heart shaped like the brilliant, mad man that had healed John. And he filled that hole with a wish, just one that he would repeat to himself constantly.
One more miracle... Please, just one... Don't be dead.