Sherlock was dead, dead and buried, and he wasn't coming back. John Watson stared down at the new gravestone, neither seeing nor comprehending. It was all over… He had descended deep into a foggy daze, lost to the world as the image of Sherlock falling played over and over in his mind.
He can't be gone, he can't be gone, he can't be gone…
But he was.
"John… John! John, are you alright?" it was Greg, attempting in vain to hammer away at his grey cocoon, "Of course you're not alright," the D.I. corrected himself, awkwardly putting a comforting hand on John's shoulder, only to remove it, "I just wanted to say, I believe him too, and if you want anyone to talk about it…"
The words barely made a dent, though it was a valiant attempt.
"Anyway," Greg removed his hand and continued, "I wanted to offer you a job, as a consultant to the force. Nothing official, but I'd give you cases-"
"Mycroft put you up to this?" John interrupted, his voice flat and weary, drained of emotion.
"Yes, but it is something to do now that…" he trailed off, there was a moment's pause before he continued, "You know where to find me, we could use the extra hands, if nothing else, and who knows, maybe you've learned more from him than you think."
John didn't reply, he had already retreated back into the numb fog of his mind.
For days he sat unmoving in Sherlock's chair by the fireplace. He faded in and out of a half sleeping daze as he wandered through his mind, lost in the mist. He only knew when he was asleep by the nightmares that came relentlessly pounding at his aching mind. Time passed around him unheeded by his unmoving form. Every so often, Ms. Hudson brought him food and drink - it all went ignored. His whole body ached, but that better suited his state of mind, he thought bitterly.
A knock sounded at the door, cutting through his already painful headache. Otherwise, it went ignored.
He heard the door creak open, "My god, it's a mess in here!" it was Greg, he stood in the doorway examining the decrepit room and its sole pitiful inhabitant, "Ms. Hudson told me you haven't moved in days, I thought she was exaggerating! No wonder Mycroft told me to check in on you anyway."
John barely turned to look at him with dull eyes.
"You look terrible. Have you eaten at all?"
"No." John replied, his voice hoarse with disuse and dehydration.
"Here, I'll get you some tea." Greg awkwardly made his way into the kitchen and found a pot of lukewarm tea sitting on the counter. It appeared to be a few days old and utterly untouched. He shook his head and heated it up, before returning to the living room, two cups in hand.
"Here you go." he handed one to John and took one for himself.
He then sat on the other well used chair by the fireplace and turned back to the man in mourning. John hadn't moved an inch. He was just sitting there, staring into a nonexistent fire, a cup of tea in his hands.
"You should have something to drink, and eat while you're at it…" Greg glanced around in search of anything eatable, but contented himself to the tea for the time being, "When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?" he asked, it almost felt like an interrogation, though he tried to be gentle, as if he were talking to the family of the victim.
There was a long pause before he received a hesitant reply, "I- I don't know…"
"Weren't you always telling Sherlock to eat? You can't starve yourself."
For an instant John's eyes lit up as he heard the detective's name, but he soon retreated once more. The cup nearly slipped from his hands.
Greg took the cup from John's hands and put it on the table before he tried again, "John, you have to at least drink something…"
"What's the point?"
"You were a soldier-" Greg attempted.
"This is different."
"Sherlock wouldn't have wanted you to-"
"WE CAN'T KNOW WHAT HE WOULD HAVE WANTED BECAUSE HE'S DEAD!" John lashed out, nearly knocking his tea cup from the table.
Greg nearly jumped back in surprise, but he kept his composure, "I'm just saying you can't stay holed up like this forever, you have to keep living." then he stood and left, leaving a folder full of papers on the table behind him.
John didn't notice the folder for another several hours. When he did, he could tell it was out of place because it wasn't covered in a layer of dust.
As the days passed he glanced up at the folder more and more frequently as a strange spark of curiosity returned, promising some degree of distraction. Finally desperation overcame inertia and he forced himself from the chair, his stiff body ached, yet simultaneously welcomed the unfamiliar movement. He stumbled over to the table and flipped through the folder. It was a case. Greg had offered him a job working with the Yard...
Suddenly he heard frantic footsteps on the stairs and the door flew open, it was Ms. Hudson, "John are you alright, I heard-" upon seeing him the expression of concern that she wore transformed into one of relief, "You're up! I'll make some tea, have something to eat!" she hurried into the kitchen and set about preparing a meal fit for a starving man.
Meanwhile, John returned to the case. It seemed fairly straight forward, there were witness statements and evidence reports that amounted to a burglary. He was surprised not to find a corpse, but he supposed not all crimes were murders - they were just the most "interesting" ones. In his mind, he heard Sherlock saying the word. John shook his head to force himself to return to the present. He had a case to solve.
In the back of his mind, he knew that the case didn't warrant an extra investigation and that chances were it had already been solved, but he needed the distraction too much, so he threw himself into it. First things first. He rummaged around the flat for a notepad. In the meantime, Ms. Hudson had put more food than he had known they had on the table, so he ate as he worked, taking notes of everything he read.
The evidence pointed to a young man who had been spotted in the neighborhood on multiple occasions and had a history of theft. But that was too easy, there had to be something more to it, there was something unusual about the daughter's testimony, it didn't line up. He needed to go out and do some field work.
He was about to just walk out the door when he remembered he hadn't changed in days. First, he had to clean up… Two hours later, he left for the first time in days, the file in hand, to go question the victims' daughter. He wore his nicest suit for the occasion.
Thankfully their address was in the file. He found it easily and knocked at the door twice, in a way that he hoped sounded sharp and official. A dog started to bark from inside and he heard people scrambling about until finally the door swung open, revealing a girl no older than 13.
"Hello, are your parents home?" John asked her gently.
"Can I help you?" it was a hassled man, who appeared to be her father, he was holding back a large dog.
"Mr. Fellows is it?" - the man nodded - "I'm working with the Scotland Yard, I was informed you reported a burglary?" John explained awkwardly.
"Could you take Orange inside?" he asked the little girl, obviously referring to the dog - which was not orange in the slightest - before turning back to John, "Yes, I thought Inspector Davidson had already found the culprit, the court date is arranged for the 5th…"
"Ah, well... I'm just doing some last minute investigation, we found a new lead you see…" John trailed off.
He had been right, the case had already been solved, but maybe there was something the police missed, Sherlock always said- But Sherlock was dead! It didn't matter, he had to focus!
Mr. Fellows gave him a suspicious look.
"I'm John Watson by the way," John heard himself say, holding out a hand for him to shake.
Mr. Fellows only took it very briefly, "Common name…" he remarked.
"I'd just like to interview your older daughter one more time, Katherine, her name was?" John forged on.
"Alright…" he replied reluctantly, "Come on in."
Mr. Fellows led him into a large, comfortable living room filled with assorted toys, papers, books and household objects. It was cluttered, but several times cleaner than the flat was at the moment - or ever was, really... He remembered the chemistry experiments at all hours and body parts in the kitchen and his eyes began to water- No! He couldn't think about that!
Mr. Fellows motioned for John to sit on the couch as he called upstairs, "Katherine, Mr. Watson - was it? - is here to ask you a few questions!"
John belatedly sat where he was bid, across from the younger girl, who was kneeling on the floor, intently working at a coloring book with a set of mainly broken crayons. He was about to ask her about it when her father told her to clear out and a young woman with long blond hair, with bright pink highlights, in a short skirt and a close fitting top, made her way down the stairs.
"Katherine is it?" John stood to greet her.
"Yeah." she replied suspiciously.
"I'm John Watson, with the Scotland Yard-"
"You're Sherlock Holmes' boyfriend!" she exclaimed suddenly putting the name and face together with all the pictures she had seen in the tabloids - it seemed he could not go unrecognized quite yet…
"I'm not his boyfriend…" he trailed off, the image of Sherlock falling from St. Bart's flashed in his mind's eye, but he forced it back, he had to focus on the matter at hand! That was all he could do...
"Katherine…" her father cautioned, though he gave John a glance of disdain and pity.
John forced himself back into the present, "Regardless, I'd like to ask you a few questions - about the burglary."
"Alright…" she sat down in one chair, and her father sat down in the other.
"What exactly happened on the evening of the 21st? - Mind if I take notes?" John had already taken out the notepad, but he assumed he aught to ask.
She shook her head, "As I told Inspector Davidson, I was having trouble sleeping so I went to get a glass of water, while I was up, I heard some commotion downstairs. So I went downstairs and saw a young man, dark hair, in a hoodie and jeans run outside. The window was broken and all the doors were unlocked. I woke up dad and he said not to worry about it, so I went back to sleep, assuming that he would deal with it." she explained.
He turned to her father, "And you don't remember any of this?"
"No, I must have been half asleep at the time..."
By the time John finished questioning them, it had gotten fairly late and he was tired, but he couldn't stop now, he needed to tell Greg what he had found. He caught a bus to the New Scotland Yard and found Greg on his way out.
"John, there you are! You look a lot better-" Greg said upon seeing him.
"I know who the culprit is." John interrupted, in no mood for small talk.
"That's good. I was getting worried that you hadn't moved from that spot since I visited. It was a fairly easy case-"
"It was the daughter." John continued.
"What?" Greg asked in surprise.
"It looks like it's Mr. Mason, but her testimony doesn't line up!"
"John, we found the stolen goods in his apartment…"
"She might have planted them there-" he exclaimed, it had to be her, the case couldn't be that simple, there had to be more.
Greg interrupted "I know it must have seemed that way working with-" he cut himself off and tried again, "Cases usually aren't that complicated, if all the evidence says someone's the culprit, they're usually the culprit, it's finding the right evidence that's the problem."
"Oh." that should have been obvious...
"What about I give you a more difficult case to investigate?"
John nodded.
"I'll get it to you tomorrow, in the meantime, go get some rest, you look like you need it."
"Alright." John replied hesitantly.
"See you tomorrow." Greg headed off to his car.
John turned and made his way to the nearest underground station.
The desert stretched out around him as he walked, on and on, never stopping. Slowly bodies began to appear, fallen soldiers he had known and hadn't been able to save, as he had left them, laying by a makeshift road. Rows of bodies led him into a small, abandoned town, baking under the hot desert sun, letting off a rancid stench. He glanced this way and that, expecting an enemy combatant to leap out at him from every corner, but all he found were rotting corpses bearing the faces of friends he hadn't seen in years - some he knew where dead, others he could have sworn were still alive - laying on the ground and propped up against the walls of buildings.
They all seemed to be pleading with him, begging him to save them, but he couldn't, he couldn't even save one man! He started to run all their faces began to melt and twist into one all too familiar. They were all Sherlock, begging him to save him, but he couldn't save any of them! All he could do was run faster and faster. And he was at St. Bart's, and Sherlock was there, up on the roof, ready to jump. John tried to yell for him to stop, not to do it, but his voice made no sound.
And Sherlock fell.
His eyes flew open and met a familiar white ceiling. His skin was drenched with sweat as he lay there shivering, his heart pounded. The room that had once been Sherlock's was dark, a glance at his phone told him it was barely three in the morning. He was home, "safe," it had just been a nightmare, but the nightmare continued. He pulled what had been Sherlock's blankets around him and sat in fetal position - his knees drawn to his chest - his back leaning against the headboard, and cried. Wrenching sobs shook him as he let out all the frustration and loss and helplessness.
Sherlock was gone, long gone, and he wasn't coming back.
His mind begged for a distraction as the image of Sherlock jumping and falling and laying there, broken upon the ground played before his eyes on endless repeat. He should have done something! If only- He could have stopped it! If only he had- Done anything! They all died, and there was nothing he had done about it, he couldn't even save one man!
The sound of a knock at the door freed him from his thoughts, he leaped from the bed and ran to open it, still in his night clothes - as he belatedly realized. It was Greg another folder in hand. John snatched it from him and began to read, skimming through the pages searching for something that would grab his attention long enough to make him forget...
"Are you alright?" Greg asked hesitantly, peering into John's wild, desperate eyes. Combined with his disheveled appearance, John made quite the sight.
"What took you so long?" John snapped in reply, not looking up from the document, though he was unable to focus on it.
"I thought I'd let you sleep…"
John shook his head and forced his attention back to the case, leaving Greg, to stand there, ignored. He exchanged a brief word with Ms. Hudson before going on his way.
From that moment on, John spent his every waking moment working and he did not sleep for fear of nightmares, until he collapsed out of pure exhaustion into a dreamless coma. He talked to witnesses, sifted through evidence, went to crime scenes, and even buried himself in paper work, when there was nothing else to do. He started with simple property crimes, nothing too serious for an amateur to botch, but as days faded into weeks and weeks into months, he got better, so the cases got harder and more important until he was as good as a regular member of the cold case squad. He wasn't even bad at it; he was helping solve cases that hadn't been looked at in years.
Sherlock would have been proud, but he couldn't think about that. He no longer woke up in a cold sweat and broke into tears, he hadn't cried in a long time, but he rarely smiled either. He kept up appearances and made nice with the witnesses, but as soon as he was alone, what had become his characteristic intense, dazed expression returned.
The initial plan, as he later discovered, had been for Greg to pay him with Mycroft's money so that he could provide for himself. But though Greg paid him, John did nothing with the money, leaving Ms. Hudson to do all his shopping and cooking until Mycroft surrendered and sent him prepared food - primarily courtesy of Angelo - instead.
John's entire life was consumed by the cases, but they served only as a distraction. He could not stop for fear of losing himself in memories once more, but unless he stopped, he could not move forward with his life. For months he remained trapped in the self-reciprocating cycle of desperation, gradually becoming more and more aware of his circumstances.
Finally he reached the inevitable conclusion; eventually, he would have to face Mycroft and tell him to call it off. But what if he couldn't find work? What if he collapsed again? He couldn't keep living like this, but what other choice did he have?
Before John could act on any of it, Greg went on a much needed two week long vacation, leaving John a new case, along with the one he had been working on at the time. But Greg miscalculated. For the entire first week John was preoccupied, but by the middle of the second, he had nothing left to do but wait for a response from his latest lead.
For the first time in months, he had free time and couldn't go to Greg to resolve the problem. John was exhausted, he didn't know the last time he had slept. Perhaps he could actually get a good night's sleep, without first needing to collapse out of exhaustion. Maybe it had been long enough, hadn't it?
He went through his entire evening routine that he thought he had long since forgotten and easily fell into a deep sleep on Sherlock's old bed.
He sat in his childhood home, at the desk he had used for homework over the years. Suddenly a knock sounded at the door, interrupting him and Mycroft Holmes came in. It was time for the funeral. But it was also three years later - time for Sherlock to return. Mycroft led him outside, into a black car, identical to all the ones Mycroft had used to kidnap him.
It let him out in front of their Baker street flat. John ascended the stairs, passing family and friends who had been there, waiting for his arrival. He wandered through the house, searching for Sherlock's body that would surely hold the key to his untimely demise and his much awaited return. But it still wasn't there!
John returned outside and found himself in a large amphitheater where the funeral would take place. He scanned the crowd, but Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen. He needed to go into the bathroom, clear his mind; Sherlock would come. It was three years later, he had to come back, he just had to!
He heard the service begin. Now! He stepped outside and searched for the familiar face once more. There! Up in the second level! He ran across the flat basin that served as a stage, up into the audience where Sherlock sat, returned to life at long last! Greg warned him that Sherlock's rib was broken, but he didn't care as he caught Sherlock in a tight embrace, desperate to never lose him again.
Against his will, John's eyes opened, letting in the afternoon light. He couldn't help but smile as he felt the dream lingering around him. But it was not real. Sherlock had been dead for months - how many he did not know as he had lost track of time - and he wasn't coming back, not now, not ever. All he ever wanted was to be back in that dream, back where Sherlock was alive and there with him-
He needed work, fast! He automatically grabbed his phone and called Greg - straight to the answering machine. Greg was on vacation and not to be disturbed. Something! He needed something! Or god only knew what he would do… If not Greg, maybe Mycroft, who had organized this whole charade, could help him! He leaped out of bed.
As soon as he was just presentable enough to go outside, he raced downstairs to the street, with a muddled explanation to a confused Ms. Hudson, and called a cab to take him to the Diogenes Club. He fidgeted relentlessly the whole way there without a case to keep himself preoccupied. Finally, it came to a stop, he almost forgot to pay the cabby as he rushed out into the strange club which Mycroft frequented.
John took the stairs two at a time and followed the familiar path to the opulent room where Mycroft usually took visitors. He garnered several disdainful looks along the way, but they went ignored. He came to the right door and shoved it open without thinking of knocking. There he found an all too familiar tall man pacing back and forth in front of the desk as he talked agitatedly, his voice still recognizable despite an affected accent.
John fell to the ground in a dead faint.
"John, John! Are you alright?" it was Sherlock, the accent gone without a trace.
His eyes slowly opened and he found himself collapsed upon the carpeted floor of Mycroft's study. Sherlock was bent over him wearing an expression of pure concern. John's first thought was that he had died and met Sherlock in the afterlife, but that seemed unlikely, or at least it seemed reasonable to assume he was still alive. And that meant one thing, since he was quite confident that people could not come back from the dead - no matter how much you wanted them to - Sherlock had been alive this whole time…
Without another thought John punched the detective in the face and forced himself into a sitting position, "You were alive this whole time?" he shouted with the force of all his conflicting, overpowering emotions. John loomed over Sherlock as he recovered from the strike, "You didn't once think to drop by and tell me that you were alive? I died, Sherlock, it wasn't just you who died when you jumped off that building! But you didn't really die, did you? You just faked your own death and left me for dead!" the words tumbled from his mouth before he could censor them or even make them coherent.
"John," Mycroft interrupted, having not moved from behind his desk, "I recommend that you lower your voice unless you wish to be thrown out."
Sherlock slowly sat up and motioned for silence from his brother. To John's surprise, he complied.
"John," Sherlock began, taking his hand, "You look terrible-"
"I know." John replied bitterly.
"I didn't know you were so badly off," Sherlock continued, "Someone," he glanced at his brother accusingly, "Neglected to give me to the details, and insisted that you were fine. But I should have known better than to trust him. John, I'm sorry, this is all my fault, I shouldn't have let Moriarty get to that point, I should have told you I was alive as soon as I knew you were out of danger and I swear, if you will let me, I will do everything in my power to make it up to you." as he spoke his eyes were locked on John's.
John finally leaned forward and let himself embrace Sherlock, let himself finally confirm that Sherlock was there, in front of him, alive and well, "I hope you can." he whispered, on the verge of tears once more, "I hope you can."
John ran down the street of a small village, terrified that it was too late - he knew in the back of his mind that it was, but that only spurred him onwards. He made for a narrow mountain path, all too familiar. He clamored over the rocks as he raced towards Richenbach fall. He found an old walking stick where Sherlock had left it, but its owner was nowhere to be found.
"Sherlock!" John yelled, "Sherlock!"
But he shouted in vain. His only response was his own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the cliffs around him. Sherlock could not have gotten far, or else he wouldn't have left the stick. He must have remained on that three-foot path, with sheer wall on one side and sheer drop on the other, until his enemy had overtaken him.
John forced himself to stop and examine the scene as Sherlock would, alas it was too easy to do. Two lines of footprints were clearly marked along the further end of the path - the soil was permanently wet from the spray of the falls - both leading away from him. There were none returning. A few yards from the end, the soil was all ploughed up into a patch of mud and the brambles and ferns which fringed the chasm were torn and bedraggled.
He bent down and peered over the edge, the spray spouting up all around him. It had gotten darker since he had been there last, and all he could see was the glistening of moisture upon the black walls, and far away down at the end of the saft, the gleam of the white water.
"Sherlock!" he shouted; but only that same half-human cry of the fall was borne back into his ears.
John's eyes flew open and he awoke with a start. His clothes were drenched in sweat though he was shivering with an unnatural chill. His heart raced, frantically pounding at his ribs, as he stared into the darkness of the room that closed in around him. His hand fumbled at his side until finally it found the switch and the room was bathed in a sick yellowish-orange glow. To his surprise, he was in his own bed, in the upstairs bedroom.
He stared at the familiar ceiling, losing himself in the cracks in the paint. Two - or was it three - nightmares in the same night. It was getting worse. What had he done to deserve this? Sherlock was dead, dead and buried, why couldn't his mind stop tormenting with reminders of his death - they had even stopped making sense! - and teasing him with glimpses of his dear friend, still alive! All he wanted, all every inch of his form wanted, was for that dream to be real, for him to see Sherlock again, just for an instant. For him to be alive…
Why did he have to wake up?
The eerie, haunting sound of someone scraping at a violin echoed from downstairs. He could picture Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room, playing as if in a trance… Great. Now he was having auditory hallucinations. Fantastic. He almost wanted to give a harsh, mirthless laugh at his own expense, but he didn't. Part of him wanted to try and fall back to sleep, in hopes that he would return to that lovely dream, but that would just make things harder come morning, and what if he found himself in the midst of another nightmare. A shiver ran down his spine.
Then again, Greg wouldn't come back from vacation for another day, what would he do, spend the entire time curled up in Sherlock's chair - like old times. He let out a sharp, hoarse, humorless laugh, that sounded like a cross between a cough and a sob - that was more accurate, at least.
The playing downstairs paused. The silence he was quite confident had been there all along closed in around him, locking him within the walls of his mind. He needed something! If only he could fall back to sleep, back into that dream and never wake up! Never wake up… He curled up and let out a wrenching sob. It was too much! He had nothing to do, nothing else to think about. Loss consumed him as it had in the early days, right after Sherlock's death. His body shook with it as he cried and cried.
Suddenly he felt a bony arm around his shoulders. The bed shifted as someone else sat down and John felt himself pulled against his chest. Instinctively, his arms curled around the man's thin form and he clung to him as if he was the only thing between him and an endless void - which figuratively he was. John buried his head in his chest and let himself cry until he could cry no more.
He knew not how long he stayed there, wrapped in the arms of a benefactor he was too afraid to identify for fear that he wasn't Sherlock - or perhaps for the even greater fear that he was.
"It's alright, I'm here." he heard Sherlock say as he dozed off in his dear friend's arms.
When John woke up that morning, he was not alone for the first time in years. His first thought was who the hell had found their way into his bed? He struggled free from his awkward position on top of his… companion, and found himself looking up at Sherlock Holmes. John nearly fainted for the second time in about 36 hours.
"Good morning." Sherlock remarked, his voice betrayed more than a hint of amusement, a teasing smile played out across his lips.
John couldn't help but break into a wide grin, though his cheeks turned red with embarrassment as that night's memories crashed back to him. He hugged Sherlock so tight it hurt, but he couldn't let go for fear that the instant he did Sherlock would vanish once more.
"You'd better not leave like that again!" John declared.
"I won't." Sherlock replied simply.
Sherlock was alive, he was actually alive...
He could barely believe it, he couldn't believe it, but unless he had started hallucinating, it was true. John didn't want to move out of a strange, bittersweet combination of comfort and fear, but his stomach ached with hunger and his throat burned with thirst, though he felt better rested than he had in ages, so that was a start. Finally, his stomach growled, betraying his physical state.
"When was the last time you ate…?" Sherlock asked suddenly, as if he had just realized John's condition had in part likely been caused by malnutrition.
John thought for a moment before he finally replied, "I haven't the slightest…"
"You're always insisting I eat, now it's my turn. You have to eat something."
John chuckled, "I suppose… There might be food in the fridge…"
"Do you want me to bring you-" Sherlock began to ask, but he thought better of it and stopped himself short, "Shall we go downstairs and see if we can find something?" he tried again.
John half-reluctantly agreed and they untangled themselves, stood, and made their way downstairs, hand in hand. They found leftovers in the fridge and descended upon the most mix-matched of meals that John would later recount as a feast fit for kings. They easily chatted about all sorts of things as if Sherlock had never left, but John still clung to his friend's hand as if it were a lifeline.