Author's note: My first crack at a Sherlock fanfic, it's in a writing style I'm not at all used to so if you find kinks in it, don't hesitate to point them out to me. It's going to be the same day in all the chapters, just focussing on a different character, this is John.
John is asleep in a nest of blankets and sheets his subconscious helped him build throughout the night. He wrestles with a down pillow, asleep but not at peace, dreaming the same dream he has dreamt for the past six months.
Sherlock is atop a pillar, his arms spread eagle, smiling. (Why is he smiling?)
John stands at the bottom looking helplessly up, he tries to run but his feet are cemented into the ground. He tries to shout, but his voice is on mute.
The man on the pillar speaks.
"Goodbye, John."
He wakes up every time Sherlock says his name. He sits in the dark room, huffing and puffing. He is sweaty and tired and angry.
"Dammit," he mutters, his voice is barely audible but at least it's not mute, "dammit not again..."
He glances at his digital clock whose numbers and letters glow an infuriating red (3:43 AM), and he throws tears he had buried for so long start to seep through, waves of emotion come crashing down around him.
Dr. John H. Watson cries himself back to sleep, he cries himself right back to the past.
"Goodbye, John."
It's the sound of birds that wake him. He is surprised by this, he was sure he'd set an alarm. He has forgotten the dream, forgotten the terror. He sits upright, and sees the clock on the floor.
"Oh, right."
He raises a hand to his face and rubs his eyes. He slowly puts his feet down onto the cold wood floor and stands. He looks at his bare toes letting the brief sense of vertigo settle in before taking slow steps to the door, leaving his clock in pieces by his closet.
He manages to get downstairs to the kitchen without thinking about Sherlock, but when it comes time to open the fridge he can't help but pray there are pieces of a human corpse waiting to greet him. Instead there is a fully stocked fridge, and he pulls out the full carton of milk. He drinks it straight out of the box, there's no one else in the flat to think of anyway.
He takes a moment to look around the kitchen. Clean. Just the way he liked it. No test-tubes or chemicals, no mysterious substances or messy notes. Just cleanliness. A naked table, a shining linoleum floors, nude countertops. Mrs. Hudson likes it better this way, he thinks.
"He was always such a messy boy, Sherlock." She would say when they were packing up his things. "But you're not like that at all, no you like order. It will be much easier to look after the house with just you, John."
He had only returned to 221 B Baker Street three weeks ago, having realized he couldn't afford anywhere else in London, and he couldn't bear to be anywhere else.
He sits in the living room, staring aimlessly at the chair across from him where a box of lab equipment sits along with Sherlock's violin. Mrs. Hudson had talked about donating Sherlock's things to a school, but they had never done it. They just put everything into boxes and hid them in Sherlock's room and around the flat. They always hoped it was somehow a lie, that Sherlock would appear at any minute and say a simple "I'm not dead, get me some tea, would you?" but with every passing day the dream became more and more distant.
A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts, and he stands, shaking the memories out of his head. He walks down the stairs, opens the door and allows Molly to come inside. It was raining and Molly is drenched. She doesn't seem to mind though, she just smiles at John and begins walking upstairs, she has a bag with her and Jon can't help but wonder what's inside.
"I made you some biscuits," Molly says, pulling a tuberware container out of her bag and placing it on the kitchen table, "thought you might like something sweet."
He starts to voice a refusal, but a look shot from Molly makes him give up and utter a thank you. She had changed since Sherlock's death, become more confident in herself. Let herself go a bit more. Matured.
She begins to pad her way through the living room, lightly laying her fingers on the boxes upon boxes of Sherlock's belongings, her eyes resting on the skull sitting on the mantelpiece. "Wasn't that his?" she asks pointing to it. John clears his throat and nods. Of course it was his.
"It uh, it's a friend of mine. I couldn't pack him up too."
Molly's face softens, she walks towards John and places a hand on his shoulder, "Of course you couldn't, I couldn't get rid of his damn riding crop personally. It just sits there in the moratorium and bloody well –"
John nods, opening the container of biscuits and smiling, "Yeah... yeah, thanks Molly, but I'd rather be left alone today."
She nods slowly and waves a goodbye, "Good bye, John," she says beginning to leave. She is unaware of the repercussions the words would have on John.
He sits for a moment, cookie in hand, and feels himself succumbing to the emotions again. He is left alone, bereft and suffering silently.