I know: I'm behind on chapter updates, behind on everything really. But I wrote this a while ago and after finishing one of the two companion pieces, I just decided to post this. And what I mean by companion pieces is that I am writing two other one-shots under a different category (probably. At least one will be under a different category)that will be similar to this. NOT IDENTICAL. I am writing these with the same inspiration but they share nothing else in common. Onto the story!
John Watson was not a needy person. He could do things by himself, thank you very much, but everyone in his group of friends- and a good portion of London- knew that sometimes he needed someone. Someone he just couldn't have. Someone that was long gone.
The alleged genius, Sherlock Holmes. That was who he needed. He had clung to the hope, the prayer, that Sherlock wasn't dead, that he wasn't a fake, that everything was okay, for months. John waited almost two years before giving up on him.
He missed his partner, his friend, his flatmate. John would have done anything to get him back. But that was then. Now, John would have just given up. Because, obviously, someone wants to make him have as shitty of a life as possible.
He had been sent to support groups, to therapy, even a few times to a hospital. None of it had helped. Eventually they just agreed that John had to work through this himself. This was one journey he couldn't be helped on.
The groups and therapies had been horrible, especially in the beginning. Recounting his tale, always remembering the sound of Sherlock hitting the stone street… Spalt. The crimson blood that drenched his dark curls and covered his body. No one knew what to say to him.
What would you say to a man who had not only lost his best friend, but his companion? His other half, not in a romantic way, but in friendship way. It was obvious that the two were good for each other; they were two halves of a whole. A whole that had been broken and cracked beyond recognition.
What would you say to someone who lost someone to suicide? Most of the other people in group didn't know. And those who did still didn't know what to say. Because, honestly, you can't get more unusual and heart-stopping than that. And that's what Sherlock Holmes was. Unusual.
To say the least, he gave up on group long before the doctors did.
John didn't know what to do with his life. He wasn't Sherlock, he couldn't help Lestrade like Sherlock could've. Plus, the first case back was painful. The atmosphere was so Sherlock, he could feel him there. Didn't help that the victim was on the stone ground, so similar to Sherlock. Everyone looking and treating him like a china doll didn't help his unstable emotions, either.
John hadn't been on a case in two years. Hadn't seen Anderson or Sally or even Lestrade in about 6 months. Anderson and Sally… The last time he had seen them hadn't gone well. The first time after his death hadn't gone very well either.
To put it lightly, he had attacked them. Full out, vicious, dirty fighting, attacked them. They were responsible for this almost as much as Moriarty was. He didn't remember much of the fight, nothing but the blood running down his hands and the ride to the hospital. None of it had been pretty. But, honestly, they were very lucky he hadn't killed them. After all, he had been a soldier.
No, he had been a doctor.
But he had bad days.
Oh, how many bad days he has had. One after another after another, a vicious cycle he never seemed to break. It had taken him two years to get his life in efficient working mode. Two years for the grief to loosen its claws on John and move to the next victim. Two years for him to get permission to start being a doctor again. Two years for him to figure out the numbness would never, ever go away.
Two years to find Mary. She was kind. Sweet. And she coaxed him more and more into the world of the living. Into trusting her. Into loving her. It hadn't been hard. She was lovely, ever so lovely. Beautiful, kind, understanding.
But she wasn't Sherlock. She wasn't who he missed.
Mary had never met him. Never would. Never would be intimated by his, well, Sherlockness. She didn't understand why it hurt, how much it hurt. Pain couldn't be measured. John had learned that long ago. But back then he just thought that pain was physical thing. Then he went to war. Met Sherlock. Watched Sherlock fall.
How wrong a person could be.
The pain, the ache he felt, couldn't be measured. He knew that he would always feel it. But now, slowly, it was becoming less of a sharp, shooting pain and more of an ache. A bruise upon his tattered heart.
He and Mary had been dating for 10 months. Happy months. He slowly became his old self. Well, not quite. He would never be that version of himself again.
John had, in all, done quite well for himself. He was a top doctor, dating a woman he would possibly marry, had a good group of mates, but above all, wasn't needing Sherlock. Not like he had. That's what he told himself. That's what everyone told him.
And yet he still felt like he was on his own, ever so cold.
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