Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own Sherlock.
John sat on Sherlock's bed. He heard them talking outside. They were talking about him. "He hasn't come out of Sherlock's room in a month." Gregory Lestrade said. His voice was filled with worry for his friend. "If he hears Sherlock's name he either starts crying or becomes violent." He continued as he mastered his voice into the professionalism he used at work. John didn't mean to hurt Greg. It was an accident, honest. He felt a lump rise in his throat at the name. Hot tears formed in his eyes, burning as they ran down his face and stung his eyes. "He refuses food and drink and hasn't spoken since...it happened except when he's alone in Sherlock's room." Greg continued. John knew the woman he was talking to. His therapist whom he had gotten rid of after a month or so of living with Sherlock. Greg had tracked her down and summoned her to the flat.
"I see." She murmured. John, being the practical medical man he was, knew she was debating what to do. The most logical course of action would be a mental institution. She opened the door and walked in, eyes watching John. She looked around the room and John found himself getting suddenly defensive. She didn't know Sherlock. What right did she have to be in here? In his room? Looking at his personal things? This was his home, this was all that he left for John and she was barging in. How was that fair? John saw her eyes roam over the abused laptop and phone chargers. She overlooked the stacks of books lining the walls more like wall paper and paused as her eyes landed on the needles and rubber band. John had been breaking into Sherlock's stash of drugs, it was true. It allowed him to see his face, to see his smile. "Hello John." She said sitting on the end of the bed. Greg watched from the door, wary and uncomfortable. John looked over at him, through the wavy film of tears.
"He's gone." John murmured. It was the most pitiful thing Greg had ever heard. It was so sad and broken. Greg nodded as his expression twisted; he was trying to keep himself from crying. The therapist put her hand on John's knee and he recoiled from her. She was trying to be comforting but John just wanted her to leave.
"Tell me about him. Tell me about Sherlock, will you John?" She asked. That was it. She had no right to use his name. She was here, in his personal space, trying to butt in, but it wasn't her right. She had no reason to be in there, no right to be in all that remains of Sherlock Holmes.
"GET OUT!" John screamed. He leapt from the bed pointing at her and then at the door frantically. "YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE IN HERE! YOU DIDN'T KNOW HIM! DON'T PRETEND TO UNDERSTAND! GET OUT!" He screamed. She stood slowly and walked to the door. John let the tears fall freely now. He looked at Greg. "Leave me be." He murmured as he slammed the door behind them.
"See what I mean?" Greg asked.
"Anger is a part of dealing with loss of a loved one." She responded reasonably.
"But what do we do? Can we help him?" Greg asked. John shut his eyes as tightly as he could. He tied the band around his arm with expert ease and popped the cap off the needle. He opened his eyes to aim the point and then, shot up the last of Sherlock's stash as he sat on the bed.
"Hello John." Sherlock mocked the therapist smiling and sitting on the end of the bed. It was the same spot the therapist had just vacated. He was pale as always and wearing a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It looked oddly like a white version of his usual purple shirt. His slacks were black and his shoes were too. His hair was its usual unruly self and he smiled more often now that he was dead. With that smile all the memories of him came flooding back to John and he got very dizzy. Sherlock coming home from the store looking very please. John scolding Sherlock for forgetting the milk and Sherlock looking dejected. Sherlock covered in blood with a harpoon being a total git. The look Sherlock got when he solved a particularly challenging case. The look Sherlock got that said he was a thousand miles away when someone thought the two of them were a couple. The flare of jealousness Sherlock suffered from when John socialized with other people. It all hit John in wave after wave of pure unbridled emotion.
"So that's Sherlock?" The therapist asked from the hall. Perhaps someone else saw him for a change, thought John. More likely, Greg was showing her the picture he had taken of John and Sherlock together on his phone. Greg had snapped it when Sherlock was wearing the deer hunter cap. Sherlock was looking grumpy and John was hugging Sherlock's waist and grinning like the idiot he was.
"What do I do?" John asked. He reached out to take Sherlock's hand and, as usual it slipped right through and landed dejectedly on the bed. He wasn't really here John. Pull it together.
"Now John, you know I don't suffer fools." Sherlock said standing and glaring down at John.
"I know but-" John started to defend himself but Sherlock was already talking again.
"Get it together." Sherlock ordered. John's face hardened. Sherlock was right, even if he was just a hallucination. John needed to pull himself back together. He may be shattered but with some glue he could fix that. So he slowly began collecting the pieces, and pushing them back together. Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye with a steady gaze. He rolled off the bed and was now sitting on the floor, or was it an ocean?
"I'm sorry I never told you." John said. He had said it at least a hundred times. "Told you I loved you."
"I know." Sherlock said. His face softened and he crouched down in front of John. He ran his hand lightly over John's cheek and kissed his forehead before standing back up. John wished it were real, he wished Sherlock were really here, caressing his cheek, kissing his forehead.
"Sher-" John stopped himself as he felt the tears start up again. When had they stopped? He didn't remember. "Sherlock." John said with determination and conviction. "Tell me everything's going to be okay. Tell me...tell me to move on and I will." John said weakly looking up at Sherlock pleadingly. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but suddenly, he was gone. John felt bitter rage pour through his veins but suddenly there was Sherlock. He'd just come through the door. He was dressed differently, something the Sherlock of John's highs never did. This new Sherlock was wearing a dark grey coat that went down to a little below his knees. His pants and shoes were the customary black but his shirt was dark blue. He looked hard at John, deducing, detecting, calculating him. John sighed, Sherlock was sizing him up, he really hated when he did that. He felt himself fall face first on the floor. Wasn't he already on the floor? No he was in the ocean. But now he was lying on his stomach in the ocean. Or was it the floor?
"Get up, John." Sherlock demanded. His voice was harsh, harsher than the Sherlock of John's unconscious mind had ever been.
"Why are you so mean to me?" John mumbled as he rolled over and found himself looking under Sherlock's bed. He'd never looked under there before. Was that another needle? He grabbed it and pulled it out, and found himself greatly please to find that it was, in fact, another needle. He popped the cap and led it to his arm, but suddenly it wasn't in his hand anymore. Sherlock had taken it. But Sherlock wasn't real. How could he do that? Sherlock smashed it against the wall and John pouted sadly. "Why did you do that?" He asked, sitting up and glowering at Sherlock. "That's my only way to see you." He said. It was Sherlock's own mixture. Half heroin, half acid. It was perfect; it numbed the pain, and let John see his dead best friend.
"You see me now." Sherlock snapped. "I'm right here John." He said crouching down in front of John with an angry frown contorting his face. John liked it much better when he smiled, he hated Sherlock's frown. It looked so stupid on his perfectly formed angelic features. A thought occurred to him then. This Sherlock was meaner and was wearing darker clothes than his usual form. Perhaps they were like the angel and the devil on his shoulders. Like in the stupid cartoons, where a character would have a tiny angel and a tiny devil on each shoulder whispering different view on things. This would be the devil obviously. He was far too big to fit on John's shoulders though, especially with his bullet wounded shoulder. John broke into a fit of giggles at the thought of Sherlock in an angel costume in his shoulder as a matching one in a devil costume was on his other one. "What are you laughing about?" Sherlock asked. His voice sounded angry. What was he angry about?
"I'm in the ocean." John declared as he began rolling round on the floor and laughing. It was a disjointed laugh though, not real and not natural sounding. It sounded more like uneven outward breathing than laughter. Sherlock retained a sigh as he scooped John up and put him on the bed. John frowned, Sherlock had never done that. They couldn't touch. Perhaps it was Greg and his mind was putting Sherlock's face on him. And the rest of his body too apparently.
"Go to sleep." Sherlock ordered as he left the room.
"So you're Sherlock?" The therapist asked.
"Yes." Sherlock responded, annoyed as if she were an inconvenience. The conversation was dull.
"We- I- he thought you were dead." Greg stuttered.
"I know." Sherlock snapped at him. "No. Get out of my flat." He snarled. John figured it was, in fact, Sherlock's flat. In death, all his money went to paying off the place. Mycroft had pocketed the funeral bills to the service John had not attended. He went to the grave after everyone else had gone but then went home. He had trashed the place, then put it back just the way it was. John was fine staying there with no money but his army pension. He didn't pay for anything, having stopped eating and talking to everyone.
"John needs help. Professional help. I'll be in contact with the nearest ward." The therapist said.
"You'll be in contact with the floor if you don't get out now." Sherlock snarled. "He'll be fine now that I'm here to take care of him."
"He needs better care, professional care." She retorted.
"Well seeing as the state he's in now, if this is your care, then you can go FUCK OFF!" Sherlock roared. There was some quiet squabbling and bickering but John was on the floor again. Except it was still the ocean. He was swimming. The water was the perfect temperature; he pulled off his jumper and abandoned it. He splashed around, wanting his angel to come back. He pulled off his pants and socks, leaving only his boxers. He knew he was on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom in his underwear but, really? He didn't care. He was in the ocean swimming alone in the vast open space. He saw a wooden sign with words painted on it in white. He didn't understand how someone could put a wooden sign in the ocean, he had dove as far as he could straight down and never caught a glimpse of the bottom. The sigh read: "THIS IS NOT THE OCEAN" John puzzled at it quizzically for a moment. If it wasn't the ocean, then what was it? He swam around before returning to the sigh. Only it wasn't the sign. He looked the way he had come and there was the sign. This one had red painted words. John drew near to it and saw that the paint was still wet and was leaving drops of red in the water. It read: "THESE ARE ALL YOUR TEARS" John gasped. Surly it wasn't true. He looked around at the never ending expanse of water. Then turned back to the sigh and saw how oddly the red pain looked like blood. He sniffed it and gagged. It was blood. Suddenly he was back on the street watching Sherlock fall. He watched, his mouth hanging open in horror as Sherlock hit the ground. He ran over and saw the first drips of red fall; they matched the ones in the pool of tears. John screamed and screamed until suddenly he was waking up.