Sherlock?
Sherlock!
SHERLOCK!
John wakens with a jolt, a rush of memories flood him he sits up and promptly vomits all over the floor. Downstairs he hears Mrs Hudson on her way to check if he is ok. She probably heard him screaming. His bedside clock reads 4:38 am. All he can see is Sherlock lying on the pavement, blood oozing out of him, proving that he was a man, not a machine. Like a dream. Or a nightmare. But real. So real, he feels the lump on his forehead from where the cyclist came crashing into him. So real, he sees his bloodstained trousers on the floor stained as he fainted in Sherlock's blood as they whisked him away. So real, he can still hear Molly's voice "I am so sorry John, he's gone". Gone where? Where has the great Sherlock Holmes gone to? Surely heaven. Mrs Hudson knocks on the door. "Are you ok?" she says, pushing open the door and politely stepping over the vomit. She sits beside him and turns on his bedside light. John notices her face is red and puffy from crying. Suddenly he felt selfish for thinking he was the only one who cared about Sherlock. Maybe Mycroft was crying at home too. And Molly, John made a mental note to go and see her as soon as he could.
He didn't even see the flat when he came in. It was dark, he walked without looking up to his room and shut out today's pain. Back to being the broken man, alone in a room. He crawled into his bed and curled up. Who was John without Sherlock?
No.
Sherlock was not a fake. No, Sherlock was the cleverest and bravest man John knew. How could anyone keep up an act like that for so long? John smacks the side of his temple to try almost to make all the questions in his head exit his head through his ears. Like Sherlock's blood. John felt nauseous again.
All at once it was morning. The light streamed through the curtains and the dust particles danced in the light. It reminded John of how Sherlock hated to dust, hated to keep anything clean for that matter. He cried. John sat and cried and howled until he thought his lungs had dried out. Sherlock was not dead. No. How could he be? Sherlock wasn't silly enough to fall for Moriarty's scheme.
He got dressed and went downstairs into the living room. It was exactly as they had left it. John was angry at himself for expecting any less. No one was going to come in and remove all remnants of Sherlock's existence. He heard the click of the letterbox downstairs and he ran for the papers.
"Suicide of fake genius"
"Fraud" Read another.
Always the hat picture. John forced a smile at the bittersweet irony. Even after death he couldn't escape the deerstalker hat.
The empty flat seemed to be swallowing John up. He wasn't hungry.
I will go and see Molly, he thought.