John sat, shoulders hunched, the little red shock blanket draped over him, mocking him. Sirens blared and flashed and John sat, staring ahead, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving. People kept coming over to him, asking if he was ok, offering him something to drink, trying to console him, but he ignored them.
"I'm fine," he repeated over and over again, the words quickly losing meaning as he repeated them to different men and women, all looking sad and worried. The world seemed to blur and run together, time slowing down and then speeding up, the world flashing and swirling around him. John continued to sit there, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving.
"John?" he heard a familiar voice say, and he raised his head to see D.I Lestrade, silhouetted against the fast approaching twilight.
"Huh?" John asked, blinking rapidly as if it would clear his head. "Y-Yes?" John blinked a few more times and pulled his phone out to check the time; he'd been sitting here for hours he realised.
"John, um, we have something we thought you might like to see," the D.I mumbled, staring at the ground.
"What? What is it?" John looked at the D.I, wondering what he wanted; couldn't he see that John needed to be alone?
"Um, well, here. We thought you might like to, um, see it." John gasped audibly as Lestrade handed him Sherlock's coat with a sad smile. "I'm sorry, John." John only nodded and took the coat in a daze, biting his trembling lip as he slipped the long coat on, the sleeves hanging down over his hands.
"Th-thank you," John whispered, hugging the coat closer to himself. The D.I merely nodded and walked away, giving John one last backwards glance. John sat in silence, smelling the scent of Sherlock all around him. It was an odd but beautiful mixture of stale cigarettes, chemicals, maybe a little blood, and that alluring shampoo he used, the fancy kind. John pulled the neck up on the coat and buried his nose into the fabric, wincing as he noticed the faint blood stain blemishing the beautiful coat. John sighed as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves, leaving the coat draped over his shoulders as he dropped his head into his hands.
He hadn't cried yet, his mind still not fully processing the fact that Sherlock was really gone, but as he sat there with his friend's jacket hanging on his trembling shoulders, it seemed to really hit him, and he began to sob. It was soft at first, barely noticeable, but soon he was sobbing loudly, his whole body wracked by the violent outbursts. He gasped for air in between each sob and choked and sputtered, the breath catching in his throat painfully.
"Why, Sherlock?" John asked loudly, not caring about the wary glances from the police and medical workers. "Why would you leave me?" John shuddered as another sob ripped through his body, and he pulled the coat tighter around himself, snuggling into the flowing fabric.
After several more minutes of his deep sobbing, John got himself under better control and sat there, once again unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving as tears silently streamed down his face, decorating the coat with dark circles.
John found that, if he closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply, it was almost as if Sherlock was beside him, about to spew off another brilliant deduction. John smiled at the memory of their first case together and that moment in the cab when Sherlock told him all about how he had deduced him; John had been so amazed.
But then, John opened his eyes and looked at the flashing sirens and the blood on the pavement and the police tape, and he remembered that Sherlock was dead, and his heart would begin to bleed again. John sat there through the whole thing, Sherlock's coat draped across his shoulders, and he would have sat there all night if Lestrade hadn't walked up and told John that it was time to go. John had been confused, where was the D.I taking him? But Lestrade had assured him that he was just taking him back to his place so he could monitor John for the night. John just nodded, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving. Then suddenly, a though passed through his head: the coat.
"Do I get to keep this?" he asked gruffly, avoiding Greg's eyes.
"No," Anderson said, walking up behind the D.I with a scowl. "It's evidence." John felt his face fall and his lip began to quiver as he wrapped it around him, shrinking back from the men in front of him. Anderson stretched out a hand to pull it off of John, but Lestrade stopped him.
"Let him keep it," he whispered, shooting Anderson a 'do what I bloody say' look, but Anderson shook his head.
"It's evidence," he hissed, but Lestrade shook his head.
"He's already been through so much; he's keeping it. Come on John." The D.I turned away from Anderson and pulled John to his feet, making sure the coat was fully over John's shoulders. "The wife will make you some tea when we get home, maybe a bit of food if you're hungry," Greg said with a smile as he led John to his cop car. He pushed John down into the passenger side and got in himself, putting the car in drive, and heading towards his home. "So John," Greg began lightly. "How about a nice sandwich and beer when we get in? I'm sure there's still some football on; how's that sound?" John shrugged his shoulders and snuggled down into Sherlock's jacket, his tears soaking the collar annoyingly.
"Not hungry," John muttered, closing his eyes, hoping that he would be able to hear Sherlock's voice. He struggled to bring up a memory of Sherlock speaking to him, and when he finally did, he knew it wasn't accurate and that he would never really hear Sherlock's voice properly ever again. New tears began to fall at this realisation and John worked hard to suppress his whimpers from Greg.
"You have to eat John," Greg said softly, his voice coaxing, but John just shook his head and closed his eyes tightly. John tired to remember Sherlock, not on the roof, but before, and then it hit him.
One of the last things John ever said to Sherlock was calling him 'you machine.' A moan escaped John's lips and he doubled over. He could vaguely hear Greg calling out to him, and could faintly feel Greg's hand on his back, but now, that mental imagine flooded his brain, and he felt sick.
"I think I'm going to be sick," John mumbled softly, not even registering what was happening or what he was saying or even where he was. All John could think was 'you machine' over and over and over.
"Get out of the car mate, go, go, I've stopped, please don't throw up in my cop car," Greg was saying, shaking John's arm, but John just shook his head.
"N-No, I'm fine, sorry," John said softly, his mind in a thick haze. You machine, you machine, you machine, you machine, John's mind played these words over and over again, and John gave up on suppressing his sobs as he began to mumble it to himself, rocking back and forth. He could feel the D.I's worried, uneasy glances at him, but he ignored them, continuing to mumble.
"John, mate, we're um, we're at my house. Let's get you inside and get you some food, alright?" John just sat in the seat, now unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving, not wanting to move an inch. "Um, come along, mate," the D.I muttered as he pulled John out of the car and shoved him towards the front door. John stumbled up the walk way, the coat dragging the ground, him accidently stepping on it and almost falling several times.
Once the two men got inside, they were both given large sandwiches and sat in front of the T.V to watch football. Mrs. Lestrade had offered to take John's coat, but he'd looked at her with a look horror and tightened it protectively around him. He sat on Greg's couch now, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving, not even attempting to touch his food. Greg tried to persuade him, but John refused, choosing instead to pull the collar of the coat up, inhaling the beautiful scent deeply.
When the game finally ended, Greg took John's untouched food and drink into the kitchen and went to get blankets for John to sleep on.
"You can sleep on the couch mate, and in the morning we'll all go out for breakfast. How does that sound?" John just shrugged and began to lay down, still fully clothed, but Greg stopped him. "John," he said softly. "Don't you think it's time to take that off?" He went to pull the coat off of John's shoulders, and John pulled away quickly.
"No," John said viciously, pulling the coat tighter around himself. "It's all I've got," he croaked, his voice raw from sobbing. "Please don't make me take it off Greg," John's voice broke mid whimper and he slowly pulled off his shoes and unbuttoned his pants. "I'm wearing the coat," he said softly. Greg just nodded and left the room with a sad smile, watching John slip into bed in boxers, his undershirt, and the coat.
"Oh John, I'm so sorry," Greg whispered before turning into his bedroom and pulling his phone out.
He's got the coat, like you wanted. Are you sure this is best for him? He's hurting, Sherlock –GL
The reply came seconds later.
Good, thank you. And yes, it is best. Goodnight, Greg –SH
Greg sighed and set his phone down, deleting the messages just in case. This had better work, because Greg doubted that John would be able to handle it for long. Sherlock was lost without his blogger, and his blogger was most definitely lost without him, and as if to confirm this thought, a loud sob echoed through the house, followed by the vicious words 'you machine.' Greg shivered and pulled the comforter over his head.
He had never doubted Sherlock's judgment more in his life.