Title: Everything but good
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Johnlock
Category: deathfic / angst
Type: One-Shot
Warnings: deathfic
Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own any rights regarding the BBC series Sherlock and its characters.
Summery: Sherlock is left alone to think. But all he can think about is John. Still only John.
[A/N]: I am very sorry for this, I know it is pretty much crap. There are no excuses, except maybe that I wrote it in class, but you know, that doesn't count since I write most my fanfiction in school. Point is I'm sorry it didn't turn out so great, but I still hope you enjoy it a bit at least. Ps: First Sherloc fic on my new ff account :)
Everything But Good
Sherlock sighed as he looked out of the window of his apartment in 221B Bakerstreet, watching snowflakes fall down from heaven. 'Depressed'. He laughed as the word echoed in his mind.
Mrs. Hudson had more or less, well more than less, forced Sherlock to go and see 'someone'. A shrink. A doctor. Whatever you want to call it. Sherlock didn't want to see anyone at that time, not Mrs. Hudson, not Mycroft, not Lestrade, just no one, and least of them all a 'professional' to help him.
Sherlock fell down on the couch, staring at the ceiling, sighing, closing his eyes. Pain. Pain was all he felt. Still only pain.
Sherlock knew he was intelligent, hell, he was more than intelligent, he had known exactly what was going on with him, had known the symptoms, had known the word. Yes, he had known it all, but still he had refused to really think it, to really acknowledge it, if even just for a second.
That's why it had hurt so much to hear somebody say it who did not only didn't know him, but also wasn't as intelligent. Even somebody who wasn't him had been able to read him, his symptoms. And Sherlock hadn't liked a single seconds of it.
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tight. Lately he had spent most of his time alone and he had enjoyed it, well at least most of it. He had always enjoyed being alone. Always, until the day he had met John. John Watson.
He sighed as he thought of John. Every single day, every single minute, every single heartbeat all that was on his mind was John. Nothing else. Still only John.
Sherlock hadn't taken a single case in months, yes, months. But he just couldn't think straight, couldn't force his mind to focus on anything else but John.
It had been rough, the past couple of months. It had been rough, it had been pain, it had been hopelessness, it had been everything but acceptable, everything but good.
But you know the funny thing about pain is that after some while you get used to it, after some while you need it. It hurt so much, still, but it felt good, because at least he felt something. Sherlock would give a lot if it could be something else he felt, but still, he would take pain over feeling nothing every single time.
A tear ran out of Sherlock's eye, a tear of pain, a tear of loss. Even after months Sherlock still cried at night, sometimes he cried during the day, sometimes he cried all day. There was no stopping it once the tears started to stream. But even if he could stop it, he wouldn't want to. Sherlock didn't want to stop his tears, he didn't want to stop the pain. It felt good to cry, it felt oh so good to cry for John.
Sherlock smiled because he felt the pain, because he knew it was a bad day. Or well, a worse day, because this was all he had. Bad days and worse ones. For a couple of months all he had felt was pain, all he had were bad days and worse ones. All he was left with were bad days and worse ones, all he was left with was pain, all he was left with was sorrow, all he was left with was time. Time to regret.
Sherlock hated it, he hated all of it, every single part. He had always known that at some point him and John would go separate ways, that at some point he'd have to live without John. But he denied to accept that it had come so early and he denied to accept that it was because John had died, was just ripped from him, from his arms. Literally.
They had worked on a case and John had gotten shot. They had sat on the floor, on the side of the street, and Sherlock had held John in his arms, crying, screaming. He had held John who was bleeding, from his heart, onto Sherlock's coat. He had held him tight and he had watched the light of life leave John's eyes.
More tears ran down Sherlock's face as he remembered his last minutes with his friend, his best friend, his only friend.
After so many months he still thought about John, he still cried for John, everything that mattered to him was John. Still only John.
Sherlock smiled, in pain, in a good kind of pain, as he shot himself in the heart to bleed like John had to bleed, to die like John had to die, to finally be free, the hope that somehow he could be with John again urging him forward, freeing him at last, giving him hope, giving him faith. Because it didn't matter what would happen, all that mattered was John. Still only John.