Unbalanced
Part One
John visited the grave (his grave) every week at least. If not every other day, he would go once a week. That was his minimum 'mourning' time, officially, although he mourned all the time anyway; it was also his maximum time limit. He couldn't spend too long without seeing the proof or he would begin to feel like none of it was ever real – almost as though Moriarty had planned his life for him and not just the events on the rooftop.
When the flowers looked like they were wilting, he would replace them with fresh ones. Originally he had left rich reds and pale yellows, but as depression had set in he had unknowingly tended towards darker colours – deep, dark purples, blues and oranges. He had even once or twice put a white carnation in the inadequate flower holder by the sleek black marble.
Mycroft's choice, of course. The gravestone was quiet, understated and pretentious. Like Mycroft. Everything had been arranged by him, of course. Remotely and silently, with only one time of contact between him and John the entire time.
I'm assuming you would prefer to forget about this, then? MH
Yes. JW
Then I will make the necessary arrangements. I am sorry. MH
John had felt unable to reply or thank Mycroft.
This week was the umpteenth. It had been so, so long. John had lost count a long time ago. It felt like a long time. Every second felt longer than it should to him and it wasn't fair. Everything had slowed down slightly when he had seen the body and it didn't seem to have sped back up again, meaning that his life was carried out in a state of perpetual, dreamlike unconsciousness. Even Sarah had sacked him after two weeks.
"I'm sorry," Sarah said pitifully to him one afternoon. "But you're obviously still upset and I just don't think it's fair on the patients, or you, to carry on." John had just nodded. "Give yourself time, and try to... get on top of things." Sarah had told him gently. Still, even 'gentle' sounded like 'agony' to him now. He had got used to it. He was numbed.
Now, 'mysterious' sums of money appeared in his bank account monthly and he didn't even have to go outside to order food anymore. A laptop was a useful thing. The only time he ever went outside now was to see his friend's grave or to walk somewhere random. Despite this, he hadn't put on weight. He generally forgot about food.
Of course, he did have some kind of life, albeit a stunted one that even he admitted was unbalanced. He had joined various sites online and would look at junk all day, searching for rare things that really interested him. He was included in several friendship groups online, but he hardly conversed with anyone. He was just a ghost man in the background, haunting the web as though it were the only thing he had. To be fair, it was. John daren't look around the flat at all for fear of a burst of tragic nostalgia, and he couldn't even go outside because it seemed so huge.
It hadn't been long after the incident before John had developed mild agoraphobia. He had never really enjoyed being alone anywhere, being an averagely social person, but the loss of his best friend had left him crippled in insecurity – what if Mrs Hudson was next? She was getting on a bit, but what if she died too? What if Lestrade was killed on some idiotic case? He could just imagine the obituary: 'Admired D.I. Lestrade killed in action. RIP'. Then that would be the end of his social life; it would, at least, be the end of the meagre streams of conversation he tried to keep up between those two.
That was the point as well. John was trying, but it wasn't doing anything. He still felt just the same as ever and there was nothing he could try that he hadn't. He had been forced to become a soldier once more.
This umpteenth week, John strode briskly to the polished grave and stood in resolute silence for over five minutes before finally constructing some kind of witty comment in his head, deconstructing it and then blurting out what he wanted.
"Sherlock." He said with difficulty. The one word – name – stuck in his throat and he gulped to try to stay calm.
The grave didn't respond. Sherlock didn't suddenly emerge from behind a tree miraculously. He didn't rise from the grave or jump up behind him with a cry of 'run!' like he would have before.
As usual, John poured his heart out to the block of stone. He chuckled to himself unsmilingly. How many times had he ever called Sherlock a machine, a brick wall? Talking to a stone wasn't so different from talking to the man himself, after all.
"I still believe in you, you know," he began, stilting slightly. "I don't think I'll ever stop believing in you. It doesn't make sense. So many people have tried to tell me, to make me admit to myself that it was true, but I can't. It doesn't make sense."
Still, there was no response from the gravestone or any heavenly entities.
"They... I said it before, I know," John said quietly. "They gave me your phone. You had thrown it onto the roof just before..." John paused. "I saw you throw it behind you without even looking. You always left your phone completely free with no password, so I was surprised when I saw that there was suddenly a password. It's like with Irene again, isn't it? I am 'sher' locked. What will your password have been? I am... 'Case' locked? Believe this; I've tried all the obvious ones and they didn't work – even went through the four letter elements in the periodic table, the scientific abbreviations. I don't even know if you left me some clue, something to work it out by. I can't do what you did. I see. I don't observe."
He couldn't think whether he would be more disturbed if the ground opened and Sherlock walked out as a zombie or if he just appeared, alive and healthy as ever.
For a moment John stared at the grave silently, observing the flower holder mutely; a perforated silver shell with rain water slowly filling it and fallen petals around it. The openings seemed to stare at him and there must have been a fly trapped inside it, maybe hibernating in it. What season was it? Did flies even hibernate as such? Whatever it was sounded perfectly cheery. As he watched, a typical housefly crawled delicately from one of the fissures and he sighed.
"It's like before." He told the fly. "Exactly like before. Nothing happens to me."
He had been holding some maroon flowers of some sort, but he couldn't bring himself to go any closer to the grave, so he scattered them on the ground at his feet before slowly turning and walking away, the trace of a limp in his right leg.
The next time he came, the first thing he did was to boldly place yet another batch of flowers into the holder.
He began boldly, walking quickly and strongly to the grave before carefully kneeling to push the flowers into their slots. One was jammed, but that didn't matter. Only when the flowers were dealt with did he look up at the stone.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
The way it was written was painful. Bold, capitalised and gold. It should have been delicate, normal case and modestly darker than that. John hated it, but he hated it even more when he thought that was how Mycroft had considered it 'best' to represent Sherlock. His own brother and he had no idea how to show him. He shuddered at the thought of whatever eulogy Mycroft might have written for a funeral and thanked God that there hadn't been one.
Now he was there, John was finding it impossible to move from this spot beneath the grave. His knees felt weak even supported fully by the ground, and he closed his eyes before snapping them suddenly open again in disgust. He was sitting above the bones and whatever remained of the flesh of his dead best friend. He was honestly there, and Sherlock was too, in a terribly different way.
Horror at everything mounted in him and John found himself almost incapable of moving until his stomach clenched. He rushed to the edge of the graveyard and vomited violently, forcing himself not to cry. Not yet.
Slowly, John made his way back to the grave, his limp now fully returned and his entire frame racked with suppressed sobs. Where was that cane now? It was back at the hospital, probably. Sherlock had cured him and they certainly hadn't imagined that he would need it back again.
Now he noticed what he had missed. There was a miniscule scrap of paper on the ground next to one abandoned petal. John picked it up tentatively, being sure to skirt around the dug up area rather than walk over it, and unfolded it.
FAKE
John dropped the paper and stood there, stunned.
It only took him a few moments, however, to realize what the paper, the word, could mean to him, and then John Watson fled the graveyard as fast as he could with a dragging leg.
The piece of paper remained on the ground where John had dropped it until it slowly was rained into the grass.
It was far beyond the umpteenth week when John returned.
A/N - I haven't posted for ages. I don't even know how long. PLEASE FORGIVE ME, IF YOU ACTUALLY FOLLOW MY WORK AT ALL. I wrote this at half midnight last night (as you do) and I'm going to write part two asap. This won't be a huge long story but I get the feeling that it'll drag out longer than I expect. I hope you enjoy it :)
