Loyal to a Fault

Disclaimer: I do not own anything relating to BBC Sherlock.

Warning! S02x03 The Reichenbach Fall spoilers!

"Let me come through—please—he's my friend, please—he's my friend—"

John's breath drew in sharp in shock, prompting him to step back from the curb as a taxi blared its horn angrily at him.

Again. Sherlock's suicide was playing in his head again, to the point of distraction. Three fucking months, and still, John couldn't escape it.

The detective's grey eyes had been staring blankly into space, almost right at John, if the doctor had wanted to believe. Blood had stained the pavement around those dark curls, his lanky limbs all askew. Dead, for certain, no one could have survived such a fall. But John didn't want to believe, couldn't believe, he had taken his friend's wrist, desperately looking for a pulse, but he had been gently pulled away…

"John?" He shook himself and looked about almost wildly, clearing his throat. To his surprise, Mrs. Hudson was looking at him from the shelter of a front door. "Oh, John, how lovely to see you!" The old lady hurried down from the doorway and enveloped the doctor in a clinging embrace. Funny, John hadn't expected to run into his former landlady, he hadn't done so in some time. Returning the hug, John looked up and over Mrs. Hudson's head to find himself staring up into a familiar black door with the golden number 221B glinting back at him. John felt his heart sink once again; he must have walked to Baker Street unconsciously or out of habit, for he never came to his old lodgings if he could help it.

"Um, yes, nice to see you too, Mrs. Hudson," he muttered, positioning her so that she could block his view of the door. "How have you been holding up?"

"Well enough. Sometimes it gets a bit unnerving what with all the silence, I'm not used to it being so quiet." Mrs. Hudson broke off, her lower lip trembling for a moment, but she got it under control. Not quick enough for John to not notice, though. His brow furrowed as reaction.

"Quiet? So…you haven't advertised the flat, yet?" She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself.

"I can't bring myself to. I've thought about it, but it just seems…wrong, you know? He wouldn't like it." Cue another pang at John's heart.

"For God's sake, Mrs. Hudson, how will you support yourself?" he sighed, looking at her pleadingly. "The pension can only take you so far, who knows how long you'll be able to hang on to the flats? I know 221C is still empty, so please, try to rent out—"

"I can't, John!" she whispered frantically, tears really threatening to form in her eyes. "Don't ask me to do that! Besides, no one can afford the rate, it was special rate for Sherl—" Mrs. Hudson fell silent, sniffling a little. "I don't suppose you could come back?" John stiffened noticeably, his fists curling in on themselves tightly.

"No."

"You needn't worry about the rent, it won't be as high—"

"No!" That came out a bit harsher than he had intended, and John immediately felt terrible at the defeated look on Mrs. Hudson's face. "Sorry, no, it's just…like you said." He looked her straight in the eye. "I can't." The old lady stared at him for a moment before nodding her head in resignation.

"Yes," she murmured. "Yes, of course. I understand." Mrs. Hudson reached out and took his hands as they hung limply at his side. "But, you will come with me to visit him on Saturday? It's just I don't want to go alone, not yet, and you're off duty at the surgery, yes?" John nodded dumbly, squeezing her hands absentmindedly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll go with you." His eyes happened to look up again, up towards the window of 221B. There! He saw it, he swore he saw the twitch of a curtain, a pale face peering out at him, gray eyes glinting…

All of a sudden, the emotions came rushing back, overwhelming him. He had to get away from Baker Street, from this. Hastily, John pulled back from Mrs. Hudson, bid her goodbye, and left her standing bewildered as he almost ran from his old life, the one he could never get back.

'He's not there, it's not real,' John thought to himself, hurrying through little crowds on people on the sidewalk. 'I saw him fall, he jumped. I felt his wrist, there was no pulse. Fuck you, Sherlock, why'd you jump, why'd you think I'd believe that ridiculous lie? Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…!'

Suddenly, John found himself on Bickenhall Street, with a swarm of police cars parked outside a block of flats. Lestrade was there, in charge of the investigation obviously, but John couldn't bear the thought of talking to the DI, not even if three months had passed. With that apprehension still lurking at the back of his mind, he forced himself to walk quickly by, but Lestrade had spotted him.

"John!" The doctor stopped, heaved a shaky sigh, and slowly turned around as Lestrade came over.

"Greg." He couldn't help but notice that the DI looked how he himself felt. Dark circles were under his eyes, more lines had appeared on his face (especially his forehead), and there were less patches of dark hair with gray taking their place. His eyes were weary, not quite bloodshot, but tired.

"Haven't seen you in ages!" For a moment, John hated seeing that almost cheeky smile, and almost wanted to punch it, but he forced himself to take a deep breath.

"Yeah, well," he said noncommittally. That was the point, Greg, he couldn't be around anything that had to do with Sherlock for very long. He nodded over at the crime scene. "Another case, then?"

"Yeah. Looks like one of those killers who like puzzles. Whoever it was left a note, handwritten. Something about having people telling stories…made it sound like the victims have stories to tell and that stuff like this will keep happening. Trouble is, we have no idea who could be next or who's a suspect." Lestrade sighed, frowning thoughtfully.

"Too bad we can rule out the freak," a woman's voice sneered from behind the DI. John and Lestrade turned to see Donovan coming up from out of the flat, with Anderson trailing behind her. "I would say that he did it, but since his suicide, you know…" John's vision started to go red, but he clenched his fists tightly, forcing himself to remain calm. Sherlock wouldn't thank him for going on rampage on the police force, even if the man had insisted that their remarks never bothered him.

"Donovan!" Lestrade hissed angrily at the sergeant, but she kept going.

"Always liked his puzzles, eager to show off," Donovan mused. She looked at John closely. "Told you again and again, didn't I? Didn't listen, did you? Told you he didn't have friends, what made you think he thought you were one?"

"You don't know what you're talking about, he was my friend, my best friend, always will be. Nothing you say will ever change that, nothing…"

John's fingernails dug painfully into his skin, his eyes trained on staring at the building behind them all, intent on not listening.

"Donovan, that's enough," Lestrade made to tell her off, glancing at John worryingly but Anderson had to butt in.

"It's just as well he's gone. Gives us our jobs back. Always knew that he was too good to be true. I mean, who could know that much information about a crime scene? Someone who's set it up, that's who. And in our case, a psychopath."

"It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand, why would it upset you?"

This time, the red completely obstructed John's vision and the blood roared loudly in his ears. Without warning, he snapped into action, propelling forward and grabbing Anderson by the front of his shirt and jerking him forward.

"John, don't!" Lestrade grabbed John's arm, but the ex-soldier refused to let go, tightening his hold on the little rat-faced man. Donovan had taken hold of Anderson as though she would try to pull him out of the death grip he now found himself in. Several police officers that were outside the crime scene started to run toward them, but Lestrade held out a warning hand, effectively making them stop in their tracks. But all John was focused on was Anderson's terrified face, all smugness and false bravado gone, revealing complete and utter cowardice.

"You listen to me," John said quietly, dangerously. "Both of you. Sherlock was the greatest person I've ever known. He was talented, intelligent, saw things that no one else could see. Things that allowed him to solve the most difficult cases. And he never expected anything for it. Sure, there were times I thought he was a machine and it drove me up the wall, but he proved me wrong. He got better. He was starting to become a good man. Nothing drastic, I know that was never going to happen, but at least I know he cared about people, in his own way." He sneered at Anderson and Donovan, jerking on Anderson's collar sharply. "Which is more than I can say for you. You spend so much time whining and being wrapped up in yourselves that you never focus on the case. The fact that you harassed him proves that you're so fucking insecure about yourselves. Makes me wonder how you climbed up the ladder to the positions you're in now."

Finally, John released Anderson, allowing Lestrade to pull him away gently.

"John, mate," Lestrade muttered. "Calm down, yeah? Just ignore them—"

"Like you did?" John glared at the DI, rendering him speechless. "You know Donovan went on about Sherlock for ages, you've never listened before. Why then? Why then?" Pure accusation pierced out of his eyes at Lestrade, who shifted and lowered his gaze for a moment. A part of him was telling him to stop this; after all, even if he had never made a show of it, Sherlock valued Lestrade, often times calling him the least irritating officer of Scotland Yard. But he couldn't stop the anger that he had held in from pouring out.

"You always trusted Sherlock, you always knew he could solve the cases you were stuck on. Or is that the only reason why you called him out? Eh? When Donovan told you he was making up cases, did you think that you finally got the answer to why you wondered how he always figured things out? Is that why you fucking let him get arrested?" John let out a humorless laugh at the crestfallen and serious look on Lestrade's face. "Always playing by the rules in the end, aren't you Greg? Always listening to the superintendent. Well, good luck with that." And with that, John turned and stalked off, leaving Lestrade to watch after him guiltily.

"I'm surprised you didn't get arrested for assault, John."

"Yeah, well."

He was back in therapy. He had no choice, the damn limp was starting to come back. Afghanistan didn't bother him anymore; those nightmares had turned into Sherlock leaving him his "note" and throwing himself off St. Bart's. John often woke up screaming, sometimes before the body hit the sidewalk, sometimes not. But the one thing that never changed were those grey eyes staring blankly up into the dreary sky at nothing. Today was no different; the rain was pouring down hard, occasionally punctuated by thunder.

"Why today?" Ella broke the silence that had fallen. John didn't even flinch, but blinked rapidly. 'No, you won't make me say it, you can't, I don't believe it…'

"You want to hear me say it?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment."

'Say anything, anything to avoid saying it.'

"You read the papers?"

"Sometimes."

"And you watch telly?" Ella merely nodded. "You know why I'm here. I'm here because…"

'Don't say it, John, don't, it's not true.'

"What happened, John?"

"Sherl-"

'Don't, don't, she can't make me say it, she won't…'

"You need to get it out."

No, he didn't. He hadn't for the past three months, why should he say it now? Sherlock always came back, always. No matter how dangerous the situation, no matter how ridiculous, Sherlock always came back to his side, back to Baker Street, ready to lament how bored he was once a case finished. John was certain that his friend was going to pop up any moment at his new flat, explaining that his "suicide" was all part of some sick experiment. John would punch him, strangle him, whichever came first; then, he'd forgive him, move back to 221B, and everything would be fine. It was always all fine.

But it had been three months. Three fucking months of hopeless waiting, not really wanting to believe that Sherlock was dead. But there had been nothing, no mysterious notes, no abductions from Mycroft, nothing from the Homeless Network, no familiar biting texts on his mobile.

Maybe he did need to get it out. Maybe he should stop denying it all, that Sherlock really was gone. Gone, and this time, never coming back. He couldn't handle fighting the nightmares anymore, couldn't handle going by Baker Street anymore (even if it was unintentionally), couldn't handle anything.

John's shoulders sagged and he forced himself to speak.

"My best friend…"

'I'm sorry.'

"…Sherlock Holmes…"

'So sorry, Sherlock.'

"…he's dead."

Thanks for R&R!