I Didn't Tell Him
His emotions were a tidal wave. Actually, scratch that. They were a bloody tsunami. They never really faded, but sometimes they slowed down, pulling away just long enough for him to catch his breath. And then it came back, clamming into him with such force that he had to stop what he was doing and begin to cry.
It had been a month. John sat there, in Sherlock's chair, with Sherlock's coat covering him, drinking Sherlock's favorite Earl Grey tea from Sherlock's teacup. He had to hold onto him as long as he could. He couldn't just let go.
The day hadn't been too bad yet. The tsunami backed off, leaving him with a constant, dull ache of emptiness. But all good things had to come to an end. He only half paid attention to the television. But Sherlock's name on the news caught him off guard. The reporter was interviewing someone who had witnessed the fall. The lady smiled, talking about how the death was a good riddance. She said that Sherlock Holmes had always been nothing but a horrible man.
The tsunami slammed into John. Filling him with a blazing fire. In his newfound rage, he pulled out his pistol and shot the damned woman in the forehead. The screen of the telly shattered. John slammed his cup down on the little table beside him, and curled himself into a ball. Footsteps rushed up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson would be worried he'd shot himself. She was worried about that a lot lately, threatening at one point that she would take the gun away. Poor woman, always hearing gunshots from inside the flat.
The door flew open. "Dr. Watson!" There stood Mycroft, in his three piece suit, holding his trademark umbrella. His eyes were wide as he stared into the flat from the doorway. "What on Earth are you doing? You nearly gave poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.
The shaking started then. The heavy breathing followed. John couldn't speak clearly, and his words were unsteady. "She. . . She insulted Sherlock. John pointed to the telly, trying his best to explain. Mycroft seemed to understand.
"I see." Mycroft looked down at the man watching tears fall down his face. He was covered in his brother's coat. A pang of loss struck him. "John, I know it's hard, but we have to get over this. Sherlock was a brilliant man and a wonderful person. But he's gone now, and we have to accept that."
John snarled. Mycroft didn't get it. "You don't understand!" he shouted with as much force as his weak self could muster up. Mycroft sighed ad sat on the arm of the chair.
"He was my little brother, John. I understand perfectly well."
"But I loved him!"
That shut Mycroft up. He has always suspected that something was going on between the two. "I see." He wrapped a caring arm around the man. "Be glad in knowing that you were probably the last thing he thought of. That's what people always remember in their final moments, the ones they loved." Mycroft knew full well that he wasn't even in the top five on Sherlock's list of people he loved. He hadn't been thought of. He felt a slight stab of jealousy toward the doctor.
"I wasn't."
"Don't doubt it."
John shook his head frantically, his words choked, trying to make it out of his mouth between sobs. "No. I—I didn't tell him."
Mycroft froze. Now he could see the full picture. A love that could never be returned. Death had already parted them. "I'm sorry, John." The doctor began sobbing. The tsunami was back, hitting the shore harder than ever before. He clung to Sherlock's coat. He could never let go.
Mycroft stroked the man's back, his own waves of remorse battering him. "It's okay. We'll get through this." John didn't believe him, but he nodded, sobbing.
"I should have told him," he said so faintly that not even Mycroft could hear. "I should have told him. . ."
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Thank you!
So, ya'll. Guess what. I did more post-Reichenbach. Why? Because I am evil like Moriarty, that's why. And this scene has been running around my brain for a while now.
I hope you enjoyed~
I do not own Sherlock or the awesome characters.