Thanks: Loony, my amazing beta who never complains even when I randomly send her a fic to grammarmatise while she's busy with Christmas and New Year
Disclaimer: Sherlock BBC is not mine, no profit is made.
WARNING: Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts, and off-screen character death (well, in the way of Sherlock and the fall, so let's say 'perceived' character death)
The End of the World as We Know It
Friday the 21st of December, 2012 wasn't a particularly big milestone for John Watson.
Yes, he had heard all the speculation about the Mayan calendar and prophecies and such, but John had never been a particularly superstitious man – he found the practical problems of life filled enough of his time without worrying over fate and destiny.
Rather, the 21st of December, 2012 for John Watson was just another day. A day where he woke from a broken sleep three hours too early, shuffled along to his quiet work at the clinic, smiled convincingly at Sarah when she asked how he was, then took the tube back to his tiny bedsit to watch crap telly and attempt to cook himself a decent meal.
For John Watson, the 21st of December, 2012 was simply another day that he survived.
(He wasn't sure if he was glad for it or not.)
On that Friday the 21st of December, it had been 25 days since he'd last visited St Barts. He still couldn't bear the morgue, nor the labs with so many strangely warm memories, but he did sit on the edge of that god forsaken rooftop staring at the meticulously clean footpath below. He didn't consider it, not really. Not anymore.
(He did.)
It had been 42 days since he'd run into Greg Lestrade at Tesco. An admittedly strange place to meet an acquaintance from NSY considering the neighbourhood, but the one closest to John's flat had been temporarily closed due to a fire and Lestrade was clearly renting a place while he went through his long anticipated divorce.
(Why did he still hear 'wedding ring tan, recently removed; deep shadows and ruffled hair, lack of sleep due to stress' in that deep voice?)
John had always got along well with the DI and was somewhat relieved when the customary inquisition of his wellbeing was accompanied with genuine concern rather than the simpering pity people still, still, subjected him to. He smiled and assured Lestrade that he was doing well, all things considered. They went to the pub together and John felt almost normal for the first time in a long time.
(But he'd lied.)
It had been 117 days since he'd finally been back to 221 Baker Street, to visit Mrs Hudson. Not that he hadn't seen her – they'd met at cafes and gone for walks in London's parks. She'd visited his new place, which couldn't even really be called a flat as tiny and lifeless as it was, and tutted about the state of his chest of drawers and the size of his kitchenette. But it was the first time he'd been back in that place that had once felt so very much like home. He still thought of it as home, if he was honest, but it was far too painful to venture up those well-worn stairs and see all the things that were missing. He knew Mrs Hudson was hoping for him to move back, couldn't stand him wasting away in his sad little bedsit, but it wasn't something he could do – not even for her.
(The place had had its heart burnt out. John could never fill the gap.)
They'd had tea together, chatted about the awful weather and the even more awful reality TV shows both of them had watched. It would have been a pleasant afternoon, if only John hadn't been acutely aware that the ghost of a madman hung between the two of them. He couldn't help but notice that he wasn't the only one who occasionally glanced at the door to the landing, expecting a third.
(He could swear he'd heard the rumble of a deep voice muttering to a skull.)
It had been 212 days since he'd last visited the gravesite. The word anniversary had never punched him in the chest before. He'd stood there at attention and not said anything. Birds twitted instead, enjoying themselves in the bright sun of the day.
(He couldn't even pretend it had been rain on his face.)
It had been 236 days since he'd last talked to his sister – a long time even by their cold shoulder standards – but there was no way he would be the one to offer the proverbial olive branch. Not this time. Not after a drunken row. Not after, 'Sherlock is gone, John, he's dead! It's been ten bloody months. He's not coming back.' He'd yelled back that he was managing. He was fine.
(But when he closed his eyes he still saw those black curls matted with blood.)
It had been 361 days since he'd placed an innocuous cloth-wrapped package on Lestrade's desk. The over-worked Detective Inspector had glanced up from his enforced paperwork with a surprised smile and greeted John warmly, before turning his attention to the bundle in front of him. The officer's bemused look had melted into sharp surprise as the rag revealed a standard military issue SIG Sauer and several rounds of ammunition. With a sheepish smile he'd told the inspector that he'd found it in his flatmate's belongings, that he'd thought it wasn't safe to leave things like that lying around.
(He knew Greg knew why.)
It had been 354 days since he'd leaned on his tiny sink and stared at himself in the mirror. An old man had looked back at him, dead eyes staring from a haggard face. He attempted to smile and his counterpart became the tired but friendly doctor his patients saw every day. It gave him comfort, in a distant way, that at least his hopelessness wasn't written so clearly on his face while he treated those in his care.
(But his eyes were still empty. It had been six months.)
He wondered if it would fix anything to make the jagged hole in his chest a reality, to finish what had already half happened at the bottom of a four-story drop. But he couldn't, because that would mean they were right, that they – that Moriarty – would win. He could imagine the headlines; 'Disgraced detective's lies still have casualties.' No, no he was still here, still alive. He was supposed to be, even if it was only to stand vigil by that solemn black stone and say, 'I believed in you.'
(What he wants to say is, 'take me with you.')
It had been 403 days since he'd gotten himself smashed on the lonely green grass of the cemetery. All those things he hadn't said when he'd been there with Mrs Hudson. The vitriol, the confessions, the half-formed regrets – they all came out to the unfeeling stone that marked the body of his best friend. It was pathetic and it only happened once. He couldn't bear the embarrassment of having Harry smugly be the one to take him home. It hadn't done much more than make him numb, anyway, which was just about all he felt these days.
(Though the ache for that missing part of him was so keen, it was as if he'd lost a limb.)
It had been 479 days since he'd apologised to Mycroft Holmes for the incident at the funeral. He'd gone to Mycroft's office. Surprised the man it seemed, though John knew he had to have known very much in advance – his camera network had not decreased in his brother's absence, rather John suspected the opposite. Mycroft looked tired, and older than when John had last seen him. His stiff apology had been received well enough, and they parted with an amicable nod of the head each.
(John forgave him too. After all, they were both mourning.)
It had been 516 days since he'd visited the gravesite with Mrs Hudson. He'd told the headstone things he wished he'd said when the genius under it was still alive. He wished fervently that the great man who'd been driven to this had known how important he was, how much he was needed. And though he felt foolish, he couldn't quite help but ask for one more miracle; 'Please, don't be dead.'
('Don't go somewhere I can't follow.')
It had been 523 days since he'd punched Mycroft Holmes at the funeral of his younger brother. He could hardly deal with his grief, let alone possess the self-control to keep his fury in check. The late arrival of the well-dressed man was just too much for John, and he was barely aware of himself as he marched over from his place by the head stone and summarily punched the elder – the only – Holmes in his blank face. He'd not been much aware of the commotion this caused either, briskly walking away, leaving the others to their mourning.
(He thinks He would have approved, at least chuckled. The thought that he won't ever be able to hear that again claws at him and he can't breathe.)
However, the real reason John could hardly care that the day was Friday the 21st of December, 2012 was because it had been 537 days since Sunday the 3rd of July, 2011.
It had been 1 year, 5 months and 18 days.
Who cared that the world was supposed to end? For him, it had ended with 'Goodbye, John.'
(He still believes in Sherlock Holmes.)
A/N:
Inspired by the 21st because it only happens once, right? And also because Christmas stories are cutsie and I was getting the Reichenbach feeeeeeels. It has nothing to do with my upcoming move. Nothing at all...
Oh Sherlock, why must you break our hearts so? And Johnny, don't worry you'll get to punch the other Holmes again soon.