Author's Notes: This story is set in the time where Sherlock is presumed dead after the Reichenbach Fall. John mourns his loss, while Sherlock goes on in secrecy.
Chapters will alternate between John's and Sherlock's POV.
This chapter has been re-uploaded due to a change in the author's notes.
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He is Gone
Chapter 1.
The cab pulls up at 221b Baker Street. John just sits there for a moment, staring into space. A gentle push from Mrs. Hudson forces his thoughts back to the present moment. "It's time, dear", her kind voice says. John pays the cabbie and they both step out. His eyes wander up along the familiar building. The door, the windows in the upper floors.
"I think I will just go for a walk". He doesn't want to go in to the lifeless flat. Mrs. Hudson nods understandingly and walks in, while Johns turns around and walks down the street. They have just been to Sherlock's grave to leave flowers, and to say goodbye, a week after his funeral. A day John will not easily forget, but does not like to remember...
Reporters had gathered nearby. Only a few friends at the ceremony. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mycroft, Molly, Mike, and himself. Mrs. Hudson had cried quietly. John had supported her. Sadness and confusion hung in the air. Mycroft kept a distance to the others, especially John. John was just fine with that.
A million thoughts ran through John's head. He didn't hear the few words spoken by the minister. They had agreed to keep it brief. No one wanted an elaboration of who Sherlock was, and how much he had meant, since the only people who had cared about him were the six people gathered there. To the world outside, he was painted as a fraud, a lunatic. When the small gathering was leaving, the reporters outside again started shooting questions and flashing their cameras. Despite his grief, John felt his temper grow hot. Leave him alone! He wanted to shout it, but he knew this was not the place. Instead, he got in to Greg's car along with Mrs. Hudson.
Blasted reporters. An image of Kitty Reilly popped into John's mind. He hated them. Granted, he knew that not all were as bad as her. The girl got her big scoop based on a huge lie. She bought it, just like that. Fiery hot anger burned inside him at the thought. And nearly everyone else just followed. Yes, he hated them. Ever since Sherlock died, they had followed John around, and Greg as well. John supposed Mycroft was being overrun too, but he could more easily hide. Since Sherlock's suicide, they had camped out in front of 221b. So he had avoided going home. Mike had offered him a sofa, and he had taken it.
The few friends met up briefly after the ceremony, everyone but Mycroft. Few words were said. They sipped their tea quietly. Mrs. Hudson offered homebaked cookies. No attempts were made to lighten the mood, thank goodness. Everyone shook hands, but offered no condolences. Then they left.
That night, John had gone to bed feeling quite numb, except for a heavyness around the heart. He just lay there for a long while, staring up in the ceiling. At one point, the sound of soft sobbing floated up from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson. Somehow, it triggered something inside John. Thoughts of what had gone on that day flooded his mind. It hit him. Sherlock was gone. The ache pierced him anew, and tears welled up in his eyes. He sat up, covered his face in his hands, tears finding their way out between his fingers. His shoulders shook, and a repressed sound finally escaped his lips. He sobbed on and off for hours before falling into an uneasy sleep.
Now, a week later, John sits in the park, barely noticing the flow of people passing by. The big unanswered question, Why, is growing on his mind. Why did you jump? Why tell me that lie? Pain runs through him at remembering Sherlock's words: I'm a fake... I researched you. Never. Anger and confusion fill him. Why? But no answer comes. John sighs deeply. Slowly, he gets up from the bench and walks on.