I do not own the characters of Sherlock. Please listen to 'Down goes another one' by Mcfly when reading this as it's what I based this off.
Down goes another on
The very first day they'd met he saved his life. The second case saw him with a gun to his head for him, the third he was prepared to die for him. Never would he let him down, always chasing after some criminal for him, following him blindly down darkened alleyways and over London rooftops. That's all gone now. Now he goes home alone to an empty 221B Baker Street and repeats to himself, silently, the prayer that had become his mantra,
'Please Sherlock, one more miracle for me, please, just stop, stop this and don't be dead.'
Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock could hear him, if he could watch him and, if he could, could he let him know. He soon realises that he's being silly and so he pushes his feelings to the back of his mind. Sometimes, he's too late to stop the tears though as they flow over his cheeks and fall from his chin.
As he looks back, it all seems so obvious now but at the time he had no idea. 'As ever you see but don't observe, John!' He could hear his voice in his head. Remembering, it was clear that he had lied to him about Mrs. Hudson to get John to leave him on his own, knowing there was no way he'd leave otherwise. He couldn't believe that the last words he'd spoken to him were spoken out of anger and frustration.
They never stopped, the nightmares. His memories of the war haunted him even when residing at 221B and he was sure that Sherlock could hear him tossing and turning, even crying out, at night but neither man said anything come morning. Now though, nightmares of the war are mixed with nightmares of watching Sherlock fall over and over, each time John was too late and each time he stared down at Sherlock's cold body which was covered in the blood that was running down the pavement. He'd wake up, sobbing, frequently and couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock even paused to think about the grief he would evoke once he'd been so incredibly stupid. He supposed it didn't matter now; what's done is done.
He never even meant to start drinking but he'd spotted a bottle of whiskey at the back of the kitchen cupboard and he was just feeling so down that he grabbed it and took a long swig. It temporarily numbed the pain and he liked it. And so, it carried on, in secret of course because it helped him to forget, just for a short while.
He supposed it was to be expected, dying young, when they lived such a fast, dangerous life, but he always presumed they'd go together. He never dreamt that one would be left behind. Now he's stuck living with the consequences of Sherlock's actions, having to listen to fake condolences that should have been given to his brother, Mycroft, but for some reason were given to him. The news plagued him for a while, asking what part he'd had to play in the cases, if he'd killed anyone for a puzzle for Sherlock. He hated every one of those reporters because they all assumed Sherlock was a fake when he wasn't. However, John wasn't about to give up on him and he wasn't going to cower away from the reporters when they asked.
'Sherlock was not a fraud and therefore I didn't have to participate in the making of any fake cases. There simply weren't any.'
He'd repeated this more times than he could count but each time he said it with equal confidence and belief. He thought back to the phone conversation they'd had when he was on the roof. He could hear him in his head,
'I want you to tell Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, in fact tell anyone who'll listen, that I'm a fake, I made it up.'
Of course John never believed him, never would, and couldn't bring himself to tell anyone that either. He knew that he was technically ignoring Sherlock's last request but he couldn't say it because he knew how untrue it was. However, after a while, the papers stopped running stories on Sherlock and he became 'just another jumper.' No matter what he did though, John couldn't let him go. He remembered his own speech in front of the grave,
'I was so alone, and I owe you so much.'
It was true; being invalided home is not easy nor is adjusting to civilian life. John could honestly say that, without Sherlock, he doesn't think he'd have lasted very long. He was so willing to throw his life away to protect Sherlock because before Sherlock he didn't have a life at all. He knew that Sherlock had more to give to the world than he did so, to him, it only made sense to sacrifice himself so that Sherlock could continue helping people. Except he'd failed and Sherlock is no longer contributing to the greater good but John is still living his meaningless life, being an idiot and ignorant; it was all wrong. Sometimes, when he came home to 221B, he expected Sherlock to be sprawled out on the settee or once he'd even thrown a pen in the direction of Sherlock's chair only to realise he wasn't there when he heard it clatter to the ground.