A/N: Just a heads up, I generally write Castle. This is my first time venturing into a Sherlock fic, so cut me a little slack. I'm also an American, so we haven't gotten series two yet. This is set right after the fall. (I haven't seen the whole episode.) I quote Melville liberally, and I'm not too happy with the end. r&r and hopefully I haven't butchered anything ;)
There was an inexplicable sense of heaviness on John Watson's shoulders as he trudged into 221B Baker Street alone. Alone. He expelled a breath then, something like a sigh and a sob. He would never grow used to that. He wouldn't allow himself. Sherlock Holmes had blown into his life as suddenly and as dangerously as a hurricane. And he had exited just as quickly, leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. One did not simply forget Sherlock Holmes.
With deliberate slowness, he moved to the table. The cup of tea Sherlock had left in a hurry was still there, waiting. Didn't it know that he would not be returning? With uncharacteristically unsteady hands, he carried the cold tea to the sink, where he couldn't bear to dump it. As daft as it sounded, dumping the tea was like admitting Sherlock was gone.
"It's only tea," he muttered, suddenly too aware of the silence. Yes, it was only tea; and that was only a book, and that was only Sherlock's couch, and this was only an apartment, and he had only been a man. John placed the cup down before he could drop it and wandered over to his laptop, not quite knowing what else to do. As his blog loaded, he considered another post, but nothing would come out right. He pulled up Sherlock's instead, noting with a twinge of guilt that he'd taken his tobacco analysis down. With some humor, he conjured up the memory, almost smiling when he envisioned Sherlock storming out like a child. Almost, but not nearly. He touched the screen for a moment before he closed the computer and collapsed onto Sherlock's couch, spent.
John could do nothing but acknowledge the empty feeling that pervaded his chest. Closing his eyes, he rode this wave of misery alone, begging God (if there was one) to wake him up in the morning and tell him that it was all a dream; that Sherlock was in the other room, ranting about lack of cases like a proper madman. But it wasn't true; the sinking feeling holding his heart captive wouldn't allow him to hope.
He saw the fall on an endless loop. Over and over again, Sherlock spreading his arms like some sort of angel. He would not sink to hell till he had dragged a living form of heaven along with him, John thought, unconsciously dredging up the Melville he'd been forced to memorize as a boy. Sherlock could have been in an angel. In another life. Or, perhaps, in this next one. It cut him to think of the way Sherlock had died, his brilliance shrouded in skepticism and disbelief. He had not been a fraud, and he had not been a liar. He had been the single most intelligent human being to walk to face of the earth, and if the world chose not to believe it, well, they could go to sodding hell for all he cared.
With every inhale, his heart threatened to stop beating, and his anguish threatened to spill over. His shallow breaths did absolutely nothing to alleviate the emotions brewing inside of him. Silent, strong sobs took him, and he let them, feeling no better when it had ended. His friend...his best friend was gone. Sherlock Holmes was no longer among the living.
Without meaning to do so, John had fallen into a dense, dreamless sleep. For the five hours it had lasted, he had not moved. But as the hour slowly approached six a.m, the silent slumber had morphed into some rapid slide show. Their first meeting, A Study In Pink, being taken as his 'hostage', threats on both of their lives, the pool...and less turbulent times, like watching television together, friendly (well, friendly on John's part) arguments, car rides, and the hat. John saw each of these things while he slept, and it gave him something like comfort. But soon the happy scenes faded into the darkest one: the moments before the fall. Those flashed behind his closed eyes like lightning during a summer storm. The shock of discovering him up there, begging, pleading him not to do it..and the way his heart had leapt out of place when he'd seen Sherlock's feet leave the roof...
John trembled in his sleep, trapped by the sudden nightmare. It was like he was reliving the entire day again. Only this time, he knew what was to happen. But he was slow, too slow to reach him in time.
"Sherlock!" he whispered in his sleep, "Sherlock, don't-" Somehow, as if he'd heard from his place within the dream, Sherlock turned, flashing him those brilliant eyes. It was all so real, John could have reached out and touched him. He did, put an arm on the taller man's shoulder. Sherlock grasped his hand for a moment and John was calmed by the lull of his voice.
"It's alright, John. I'm alright." As he jumped, John's eyes flew open, jolting him too quickly from the dream. Gasping, he reached for Sherlock, heartbroken again when he realized that he was alone. Even as the shattered fragments of the dream fell away, Sherlock's phantom embrace lingered.