Always

A/N: Sherlock and John are in an established relationship. There was no fall and also no absent Sherlock in their past.

This was inspired by the wonderful film "A Single Man" starring Colin Firth. For the story it doesn't matter if you don't know the film. It's a brilliant film and I really love it.

Many thanks for help and support to the wonderful yalublyutebya. I wouldn't have made it till here on my own.

I'd appreciate feedback, please let me know how you like it.

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Chapter 1

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Water. He's surrounded by water, he floats in water, weightless. But he can't breathe, he can't breathe. Where's the surface? Why can't he rise? He needs air!

Eyes. Dead eyes. John's dead eyes. They follow him everywhere.

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Sherlock awoke with a muffled cry in his throat. He was drenched in sweat and he had kicked the sheets from the bed. It was always the same dream. Every time he closed his eyes he saw John, John's dead eyes staring at him.

As he opened his eyes he thought: 'still alive' and 'it's enough'. For eight months the awakening had hurt, as the cold realisation that he was still here settled down slowly. He had never been particularly pleased by waking up. He had never been someone who jumped out of bed to greet the day with a smile, like John. Only fools greet the day with a smile; he had always said so. Only fools shut themselves off from the simple truth that 'now' doesn't mean simply 'now'. A relentless reminder, one day after yesterday, one year after the last year, until at some point, sooner or later, suddenly, the time comes. John had always just laughed at him and then given him a kiss on the cheek.

It took some time in the morning until he transformed into Sherlock, until he corresponded in appearance and behaviour to what was expected of Sherlock. When he was dressed, and the last layer of polish was applied to the, now slightly stiff but quite perfect, Sherlock, he knew again which role he had to play.

When he looked into the mirror he didn't see a face, it was the expression of a dilemma. "Get through the goddamn day," he muttered at his reflection.

Pretty much melodramatic. On the other hand - his heart had been broken, and it felt as if he were drowning, couldn't breathe.

For the first time in his life there was no future. The days were passing in a haze, but he had decided that he would change that today.

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He had written several letters. To Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade - Greg, he reminded himself with a half smile -, his mother. And the last one was for Mycroft, his Will and instructions for the funeral. There was no one else who would need a note. He had thought about Molly for a moment, but he suspected it would only make it worse for her. Also, he didn't know what he should have written to her.

The desk looked strange, so very tidy. He had tidied up the whole flat; Mrs. Hudson was very pleased, but also a bit concerned. She never gave up with her attempts to feed him up, always cooking and baking for him. But he wasn't hungry at all, never; he only ate to do her a favour. That would be over soon, soon he would be left in peace, soon …

His phone beeped. Sherlock's eyelids dropped down. The beep - he should have changed the tone, but he couldn't. Unbidden, the memories came back to him.

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His phone beeped. Sherlock looked up from the microscope and furrowed his brows. John - no, he wouldn't call him only a few hours after what he'd said earlier. Lestrade would have sent a text if he needed his help. Mycroft! Sherlock's bad mood was getting worse. "What?" he shouted into the phone. His brother's voice was very quiet and calm. "Sherlock, there's been an accident. There was a storm, a sudden front of bad weather ...," Mycroft cleared his throat. Then he continued to talk and Sherlock's hand went numb, he dropped the phone. A glass flask and several Petri dishes were knocked from the table and the various fluids mingled on the kitchen floor into an indefinable substance, bubbling quietly, as Sherlock's legs gave way.

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… he opened his eyes with a startled gasp and stared at his phone. It was Lestrade - Greg - who wanted him to come to the Yard. Probably Mrs. Hudson had raised the alarm: Sherlock had been too quiet, too neat, too nice the last two days, he knew.

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With his feet on the desk Lestrade sat back in his chair, fiddling with his mobile. Mrs. Hudson was worried about Sherlock again, so he had promised that he would watch him closely for a while. The easiest way to occupy him was still a case and therefore he had sent him a text. Sally came in to bring him some files. They didn't have any big or difficult cases on right now, but they had started to search for old, unsolved cases months ago, so in times like this, when it seemed to be particularly bad, they had something to distract Sherlock with. Sally gave him a wry smile - she still didn't like Sherlock, but she pitied him.

...

Sherlock hailed a cab. He didn't like it anymore - one more thing he didn't like anymore - because every time he turned his head there was John at the edge of his view, merely sitting next to him, watching the passing city. But they would ask questions, if he refused to take a cab, and that would be worse, if even possible.

But the worst thing was that he couldn't go anywhere to grieve. There was no grave where he could yell at John, where he could ask him 'why?'.' Why? For heaven's sake, why did you have to go there, John? It was a bloody fishing boat, why was that so important? Why? Just because that was something you had wanted to do since you were a kid. You've been to Afghanistan; didn't you have enough adventures there? Stupid! So stupid! Why did I let you go?' Sherlock hadn't kissed him goodbye, they had argued, John had been angry at him when he had left. Sherlock blinked, gnashing his teeth. And now he had nothing left.

The boat had capsized in a storm, shattered at the coast; none of the crew was found, and the only passenger remained missing. Of course Mycroft had investigated, but without any result. The current at the accident site was strong and had dragged everything out to the open sea. Sherlock had studied every possible opportunity for weeks, but with no success either. John was missing, gone, presumed dead. Sherlock winced at that thought.

A few minutes later the cab stopped at the Yard and Sherlock rose with the usual blank expression on his face. When he arrived at Lestrade's office he was ready to focus on the case. It had been two weeks since they last saw each other, and Lestrade was visibly shocked when he took Sherlock in. "Sherlock! What the hell did you do? You look terrible!" Sherlock didn't even look up. His hands and eyes were already occupied with the file he had taken from the desk while he sat down. He read for a while in silence. When he recognized the correlations, the case was actually quite simple; Sherlock solved it in no time.

Sally brought him tea and he fought the urge to comment. Sherlock drank the tea, made his deductions, and then he left. Greg tried to persuade him to have a drink with him in the evening and eventually Sherlock said yes, just to stop him asking.

Afterwards Sherlock headed for St. Bart's in search of Molly. The DI had told him that there was an interesting corpse, so he went down to check it out. He didn't want to disappoint anyone today.

Molly was in the lab, comparing slides with different blood samples under a microscope. When he entered the room she nearly jumped. "Oh, hello Sherlock. Oh, you look terrible! Oh, no, I don't mean it … I mean … I don't … ." Her nervous little voice trailed off.

"Molly, you shouldn't do small talk, doesn't suit you."

"Oh, ok. Would you like a coffee?" she asked shyly. Sherlock gave her a small smile. "Yes, thank you." Molly stumbled out of the lab. Meanwhile he looked at the various samples she was examining until she came back. "Black, two sugars," she quoted him with an uncertain smile when she gave him the coffee, and then she turned again. "I prepared the body for you, if you want ..."

"Thank you", he took a sip, "I'll have a look at it." He hesitated for a moment. "Molly, you've always been very kind." With that he headed to the morgue, leaving a stunned Molly.

One hour later he left St. Bart's. At a small shop he bought cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey. John had hated it when he'd smoked, but who would complain now? The whiskey he'd bought had been John's favourite brand; usually Sherlock didn't drink much, but today was a very special day.

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At the door of the shop a young man stumbled and bumped into Sherlock. With a loud crash the bottle shattered on the pavement, having slipped from Sherlock's hand. "I'm sorry," the stranger was embarrassed. "I'll get you a new one, it was my fault." He disappeared into the shop before Sherlock could answer. Sherlock attempted to save the cigarettes from the pile of shards, but they were completely soaked and he threw them away. The shopkeeper came to clear away the broken glass, and Sherlock absently apologized for the mess, just as the other man came back. He was about Sherlock's size, in his mid twenties, with black, short hair, tanned skin and he was probably a Spaniard, judging by his accent.

With an apologetic smile he pushed the bag into Sherlock's arms. Then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket - apparently it wasn't lost on him that Sherlock had been forced to throw away his cigarettes. "Would you like one?" Sherlock shook his head, but then stopped. Why not? He had just bought some. He nodded. "Yes, yes, why not? Been a long time since I had my last." He took the cigarette and the man gave him a light. With closed eyes he inhaled deeply.

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... at the morgue with Mycroft - Christmas - Irene was dead ...

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His eyes flew open. No, she wasn't dead, it had been a fake. But John - John hadn't faked his death.

The other man looked at him curiously, had said something Sherlock hadn't heard. "Excuse me?" he replied.

"Carlos, my name is Carlos. You asked for it."

Had he? He couldn't remember and threw the cigarette away. "Yes, sorry, I'm Sherlock."

"Are you ok?" Carlos asked. "You look a bit confused. Maybe we should sit for a moment. Would you like a coffee?"

Sherlock was so amazed that he followed him without complaining to a nearby coffee-shop, where they sat down. "Can I have another one?" he asked with a look at the pack of cigarettes, and Carlos offered him one with a smile. The cigarette soothed him, why hadn't he thought of that earlier? Now he watched Carlos more closely. He was handsome, smart, with a well built body; and he was flirting with Sherlock with his black eyes. Sherlock looked straight into those dark eyes, but all he saw were John's beautiful blue eyes. …

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He was floating, drifting away, drowning …

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Sherlock gasped. Carlos frowned at him and he tried to calm him. "I'm ok, it's just … a hard day for me today."

"A man like you? What could be so hard for a man like you?" Carlos asked, smiling at him encouragingly.

A sad smile crossed Sherlock's face. "I lost my - love."

"My mum always said 'Lovers are like buses, if you wait a bit, the next is sure to come soon'. Surely a man like you has plenty of offers."

Sherlock didn't answer. They smoked their cigarettes in silence and then he stood up. "I've got to go."

"Perhaps we could meet again?" Carlos tried. "I would like to see you again."

"No, I'm - not staying in London, but ... thank you." He was a bit bemused when he walked home slowly.

Only ten minutes later a black sedan stopped next to him and a door opened. Sherlock sighed. Mycroft. He wondered why it had taken so long.

"Hello, little brother. How are you?"

"Oh please, Mycroft. Is this really necessary? What do you want?"

"Sherlock, I am concerned. Lestrade called me and said you look miserable; and Miss Hooper was very irritated. And then I saw you at a coffee-shop, smoking, with another man. What does that mean?" In Mycroft's face he could read sincere worry.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm ok, really, Mycroft. But I have decided that something has to change, I can't go on like this." That was not a lie, he added for himself, he wanted to make a change today.

"And the whiskey?"

"You've already talked to Greg; you know he'll come around for a drink tonight." Sherlock was getting impatient now. "Stop the car; I want to walk the rest."

Mycroft nodded and gave the driver a sign to stop. "Take care, little brother."

Once Sherlock had got out, he turned back to Mycroft. "Thank you, Mycroft." Then he went away.

Now Mycroft was worried, seriously worried. He took his phone and started to make some calls.

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Sherlock opened the front door and Mrs. Hudson dashed out of her flat. "Sherlock, dear, I made some chocolate biscuits, would you like to try them?"

"You know I love your biscuits, how could I resist." He struggled for a smile. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be relieved and he followed her into her flat. They had tea and talked for a while about Mrs. Turner next door, and she told him the latest rumours and the gossip, until Sherlock thought it was enough.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I have to leave. DI Lestrade is coming around."

"Oh, really? Do you have another case? What is it? I haven't read anything in the papers." Now she was frankly curious.

"No, we're just having a drink." He lifted the bag and she gave him a bright smile. "I'm so glad you're better, my dear." No doubt she took it as a good sign that he planned to see Lestrade after work.

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

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Slowly he walked up the stairs to his flat. It was so quiet up there and it felt so cold without John, cold and empty, like his flat. He hadn't changed anything, hadn't removed any of John's things, but it hadn't helped; his flat no longer felt like home.

To escape the silence he put on a CD; 'Vocalise' by Rachmaninoff, it had been one of John's favourites. He stood by the fireplace and listened to the wistful sigh of David Garrett's violin with closed eyes. He had packed away his own violin months ago, hiding it away along with the music stand in a cabinet. At first he had tried to compose something, as he had done after Irene's putative death years ago. Back then it had helped him. How long had that been now? Fourteen - no, fifteen years - but it hadn't worked this time, he hadn't been able to elicit one single note from the violin, so eventually he had given up. With a sigh he turned around, his gaze on John's armchair.

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Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, reading a forensic journal. John is sitting across from him in his own chair, reading a novel, something about a hitchhiker; on the cover he can see a man in a green dressing gown and on the back 'Don't panic' is written in big letters. How silly. John suddenly looks up, their eyes meet and Sherlock returns John's smile. "What are you reading?" Without a comment John holds up the book, so Sherlock can read the title: 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy'. He frowns, that is really silly. "A true masterpiece of literature," he teases good-naturedly. John merely sighs, he closes his eyes for a moment and listens to the quiet sounds of a violin and a piano, hovering through the room, a gentle smile playing around his lips. "What could be better than this, now, here with you, this moment?" His bare toes rub on Sherlock's sock-clad feet; his gaze is warm and loving. "I mean, if I were to die now, then that would be ok." Sherlock's eyes become serious, "For me that would be anything but ok, so shut up." A wide grin spreads over John's face, "Good answer." While Sherlock's gaze still lingers thoughtfully at his face, he turns back to his book and again there is the familiar amicable silence.

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In the bedroom Sherlock had sorted his documents, and put his keys and his wallet next to them. He had arranged everything on the dresser in front of the window. The suit he wanted to wear hung on the wardrobe door. Nothing should be left to chance, or Mycroft. At last he added the letters.

Then he went to the little safe in the living room and opened it. It wasn't John's gun. He would have preferred that one, but it had confiscated by Mycroft months ago. So he had bought another one on the black market - he still had his contacts from his homeless network. The gun wasn't as good as John's was, but he was sure he wouldn't fail at this distance.

As he went to close the safe, he saw a photo peeking out upside down from under some old notebooks. He picked it up, thinking it had slipped out of one of the books. It hit him like a punch in the gut as he turned it around and he had to sit down. John beamed at him; it was an older picture, it looked like it was taken at one of their first joint cases, probably Greg had given it to John later. Why was it in the safe? Sherlock looked at the books more closely. Ah, John's old notebooks, and right there, 'A Study in Pink'. They had barely known each other for more than twenty four hours. John and his ridiculous titles, Sherlock had to smile involuntarily.

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"Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right."

"You have just killed a man." Sherlock looks at him closely.

"Yes, I … that's true, isn't it?" John smiles at him while Sherlock watches him carefully. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock chuckles, "That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

Now John giggles, and Sherlock smiles. "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it."

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"And who the hell are you?"

"I'm his doctor."

"And only a fool argues with his doctor."

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Sherlock ran his thumb gently across the photo, then he stood up, slipped the photo in the inside pocket of his jacket and locked the safe again. My doctor … you were so self-confident, he thought, how was it possible that you were always so confident, so certain? He himself wasn't confident about anything. That hadn't gotten better in the last eight months.

Should he lie down on the sofa? Or sit down in his chair? Perhaps John's chair? He tried everything, even his bed, but he was reluctant to do it there. The shower? He tried, but slipped and almost broke his foot. How could it be possible that it was so difficult to find the right place to shoot himself? It couldn't be that complicated!

Sherlock gradually became irritated and angry. It was John's fault, all of this. Normally he just would have asked John. Without realising how irrational this idea was, he stared at the gun in his hand and was about to throw it across the flat, when the doorbell rang - Lestrade. He had quite forgotten their appointment. Actually, it should have been all over by now. The bell rang again.

"YES!" he shouted, "I'm coming!" Upset, he rushed down the stairs, but when he opened the door he froze. It wasn't the DI, it was Mycroft standing in front of him, and his face was ashen. He had never seen his brother so shaken, not even when John was … gone. A cold shiver ran down his spine; fear grabbed him seeing Mycroft this way. His throat was tight, his voice only a hoarse croak. "Mycroft, what happened?"

"John … we found John."