A/N: i finally posted this because it was poking me and prodding me and has been doing so for weeks. enjoy :)
Sherlock and John.
This is the way things should be; this is the way things are.
(Until they aren't.)
The first thing he does is cry. Not big, shaking sobs like Molly, or thin, angry cries like . He weeps like a soldier, like a man, the stoic face of the grieving painted with brittle, soundless tears. And then he gives Sherlock's grave an awkward sort of pat, because he hasn't brung any flowers.
(Sherlock would have hated them anyway, dissected them and called them a worthless tribute to a dull past.) He steps back, and the letters engraved on the headstone seem to burn into his retinas. SHERLOCK HOLMES, it reads, 'master sleuth and an excellent friend.' He doesn't know what made him tack on the last bit, but somehow...it makes him breathe a bit easier.
He dreams of the headstone for the next two weeks.
The second thing he does is start packing up his things. He's leaving Baker Street, he has to. It was only his because Sherlock was in it, and now that he isn't, every day is a reminder of the fact. The dusty books, the microscopes, the cadavers hurriedly wrapped in plastic and crammed into the fridge. The mannequin hanging from the kitchen doorway, and the skull upon the mantle.
Oh God, the skull.
He snatches it off the fireplace, and squashes it close against his chest, and it feels like his whole world comes to an end.
He moves in with Greg, because no one wants him alone, Mycroft's surveillance or not. And Greg, although he isn't Sherlock, is good. He drags John out for beers in between cases and shifts at the surgery, and when staying indoors is just too much. They laugh and talk sports and watch stupid TV, and if he starts crying in the middle, well, Greg doesn't comment. Just takes him under his arm and holds him until the tears stop.
Donovan comes along one evening, all saccharine sweetness and positively dripping with false sympathy. John wants to hit her. (He really wants to kill her but the cabbie was bad enough) A few too many beers loosen her tongue, and the night ends with Donovan catching a cab, John hurling his cane after her as she quickly slams the taxi door.
That was a rough night.
He'd cried on Greg's shoulder for nearly two hours afterward, and listened to Greg's fretful apologies. "I'm so, so sorry." he'd said, over and over in his scratchy tones. When his tears slow, he relaxes against Greg, sniffling a time or two. Nobody speaks, and there is just quiet silence.
Greg starts to mumble, to start another series of apologies, and John leans over and silences him with his mouth. Greg starts a bit, and for a moment it seems as though he'll pull away, but instead he pulls John closer, letting them meld together in the stillness. He doesn't say a word when Greg slides off the couch and offers him a hand. He just takes it and watches Greg pull him along to his bedroom.
(It'll have to be enough.)
A word comes to him, a drunken phrase spoken by Harry long ago. "You aren't the only one who hurts" she'd fumbled out. "Other...other people hurt too, the same." And that is why he lets Greg push him down into his bed, onto rough and scratchy sheets, and with oily lube that really isn't the best. Greg spreads him open and fucks him raw, but it's okay because Greg needs him and he needs Greg, and if there's a wetness that isn't sweat hanging onto Greg's cheeks as he pushes into John with a nearly silent groan, well, John isn't going to say anything, and if John lets out a feverish "Sherlock!" as he comes, well, Greg isn't going to either.
They continue in that pattern for months, and John can almost pretend (sure you can, watson) like losing Sherlock doesn't hurt him anymore. They aren't in love; that is certain, but when John can't help clinging to Greg, because 'oh my god Sherlock is dead' they fall into bed, teary and sleepy and bitter and sometimes even angry. It's a poor coping method, and John knows it.
He's a doctor, he's supposed to fix people.
But he can't seem to fix himself.
This keeps happening, until one day Greg comes in, and his face is a cross between hesitant jubilation and tense worry. He putters off into the kitchen, fumbling with the kettle and right before John can ask what's wrong, he blurts out "I'm in love with Mycroft." And...oh. Oh.
That was not what he'd expected. But he pastes on a smile, and tries to look as supportive as possible as Greg flounders through an explanation that's more than slightly tinged with awe. Essentially, Mycroft loves him too, it was so sudden, he's so happy, and oh, Mycroft wants him to move in right away- (which is a bit out of character for him, don't you think? but people in love do crazy things anyway) -and would that be alright?
He agrees. Of course he agrees. He echoes false praises and congratulations through a mouth that tastes of sand and feels like cotton. (I hate you mycroft for taking someone else.)
And so he is alone again. Sad, and more than a little bitter too. He buys a few bottles of whiskey one night, and he can almost hear Harry's voice saying "Don't be like me, little brother." He ignores it; since when has she made sense anyway? He presses forward, tipping that first glass against his lips and wincing at the slightly bitter taste. One glass becomes three, which becomes five, and soon enough he's well on his way through the last half of his second bottle.
(or was it the third?)
The world spins and shakes dizzily, and the bottle wiggles and tips it's way out of his hand. It spills all over the carpet, and he doesn't give a damn. It was pleasant, the easy confusion he felt. They was no Sherlock, no Moriarty (fuck you, 'Richard'). There was only the cloudy, slightly confusing feel of drunkenness and the cool scratch of the fabric of his armchair against his hands.
A slight creak of the door is heard, and drunk or not he's still a soldier. He straightens (or at least, he thinks he does) and rises unsteadily out of the chair, stumbling towards where he thinks his gun might be. He slips forward and then...
He finds his way blocked by woolen fabric, inky blue in the low light of his flat. Skinny hands curve around and clutch his hipbones (and isn't that sexual), steadying him before he can fall. He looks up, confused, head tilting back to look at his savior's face.
What he sees there is enough to make him sober.
Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Crystalline eyes are boring into him, assessing him, and John is sure that Sherlock knows exactly how he's been handling this past year or so.
He starts babbling (how unusual) muttering excuses and trying to subtly shift so Sherlock won't see the bottle behind him, until he freezes, because wait, none of this should be possible.
"You're dead!", he blurts out. And then he freaks out, trying to pull away from Sherlock, and flailing like a child because dead people don't come back to life, (and this is clearly so effective even though he can barely stand) and he's just spent so much time trying to get over Sherlock and oh my god isn't he dead? He's full on panicking now, and Sherlock, beautiful, wonderful, terrible Sherlock is grasping John's face between his palms.
"My dear John, I was always alive." Sherlock says, in his deep bass. John stands there, his face still cupped in Sherlock's hands. He brings his own up, and parts his lips to do something; what, he doesn't know. He wants to yell and scream and rejoice and cry and mostly he just wants to drag Sherlock down and kiss him all over and make him promise to never, ever leave him again.
Instead, he promptly (and uncontrollably) throws up all over Sherlock's pretty woolen coat and scarf, and then pitches over in a dead faint.