A/N. I'm back! I've missed fanfiction. This is my first fanfic for Sherlock and I really wanted to try something with an OC I'd like to write.
I'm in huge need of a Beta, so if you're interested, please PM me asap! My problem is more writing style than it is grammar, though my grammar isn't flawless.
I forgot everything else I wanted to say! *is nervous*
Disclaim: I don't own Sherlock, if I did, Reichenbach wouldn't have ended like it did and we would have more episodes per year. That's obviously not happening.
Chapter One: Owner of a Lonely Heart
John awoke with a start, panting as he'd had to hold his breath when he woke up to keep himself from yelling out his name. He'd seen it again, the fall. The dream replayed in his head as the memory once did. His heart was still beating fast, he still felt like he was in danger for one second and then that fear left him as he remembered it was already all over. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Sherlock died 2 weeks ago, and nothing John did was going to bring him back. He felt the emptiness the fear left in its place, and then grief filled the hole for him. After a few minutes, he decided to go down the stairs to walk around in 221B and get himself a cup of tea to calm himself.
Entering the messy overcrowded room, he smiled at the mess of it. Even without his partner, the place was still an absolute wreck. John never was one for also couldn't stand to move anything in that flat. His psychologist told him that he should some time, that it was about time he try to move on. He couldn't leave though. One day maybe. Later. Not today, not now, not anytime soon. He couldn't. It was his place now when it used to be their place. He was supposed to remove Sherlock's things, but every time he tried he was just reminded of the tragic end.
He was quiet again, like he used to be. Just quiet, just John Watson. Just returned from the battlefield, an army doctor, a good one. He was suffering from PTSD then, now sometimes he felt like it just came back. Nothing changed. That's how it felt. His therapist mistook his reactions to returning to citizen's life because he was haunted by the war. As Mycroft put it, he wasn't. He just missed it. He was back to just plain John Watson. Nothing happened to him.
Nothing.
Nothing without him around to rock the boat.
The media didn't leave him alone after all this time. He never gave them an interview. He didn't post in his blog. They all wanted a scoop. A word. Some way to understand what'd happened. John wanted the same thing, which is why he couldn't answer them. He knew nothing, he didn't know a thing. Sherlock had left him out in the cold, and he didn't know what happened that day. He lost his best friend, and that's the only explanation he could provide. He didn't look up Sherlock again for a week after it happened. When he did, it was only to torture himself. He read for hours about the reports on his death. Sherlock never had a funeral, the closest thing he had to one was when Mrs. Hudson and John visited. The reporters had little to say on the matter, but John still felt as if he was being pressured to say something. He couldn't tell them or anyone about how he felt though. He believed in Sherlock Holmes. He may have told everyone what Sherlock had to say, but it was all a lie. Moriarty was real, John knew he was.
It wasn't the tears or the pain that he was haunted by anymore, it was the fear that kept him up. Like he was missing something.
He ran through that event at least once a day, even now. It was a month after and he still reflected on it. He felt the first week of it had just been shock, something he never thought he'd suffer from. He'd been through so much stress and trauma from Afghanistan and the cases he'd done with Sherlock, but nothing could prepare him for this kind of grief. John payed the rent himself, though he'd once told Mrs. Hudson he couldn't bare to stay. He did anyway. She didn t seem happy, she seemed concerned but she never asked questions. She never took it out on him either, still giving him the same rate she'd given Sherlock despite everything. He managed the pay for weeks alone, but now he didn t know what to do to keep the place. He couldn't go on like this, but he couldn't give the place up. Despite everything, he refused to give this place up. One step forward and John was afraid it could all fall apart for him, this mask he was keeping like he was perfectly okay.
Stamford understood. They saw each other more and more now. That man remained his friend through everything, though he was only able to do so much. He, too, was skeptical about the events that happened. Lucky for John, he never said anything. He only apologized. John knew he was skeptical and curious, and appreciated that he never let it get the best of him. He could only offer suggestions when John came to him with a problem. Never truly what he wanted to say, but what John would be able to hear. "What about a flatmate?" The doctor ignored the look he got from John. "It's really the only way."
"They'll get to me, I think, who ever they are. I'm afraid they'll get to me or something. Something that will make me do or say something stupid, I can't have someone just replace him like that." John was busy looking around the lab in an effort not to let the emotions get to him as it'd been the first time he'd entered the lab since Sherlock He let his face go blank again, no longer sporting his frown.
"Maybe they don't need to replace him," the plump doctor said before going quiet again. It wasn't brought up again for a few more days.
Weird ending, I know, but please let me know what you think and if you think I should continue. Constructive criticism is much loved and appreciated, as are any reviews. 3
