So just a one-shot based on an idea I had for a multi-chapter. I doubt I'm ever going to go anywhere with it, so feel free to make a story out of it.
John was aware of a soft fuzziness encompassing his brain and senses. He started to open his eyes, but was assaulted by a blinding, achingly-bright light, and he flinched aware from it again. There was a movement nearby, and John waited for something to happen, but it didn't. The movement stopped.
John forced his brain to focus, to remember what had happened. And he did remember.
No… no… nonononononono-
"SHERLOCK!"
The word ripped from his throat and he fought the covers off him, trying desperately to sit up, to get to Sherlock, even though he knew it was too late. Somebody was grabbing his shoulders, forcing him back down, his whole body was shaking, sobbing, hysterical. He couldn't see, couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't breathe.
"John, John!"
It was Lestrade. Lestrade was calming him. Lestrade was holding him. Lestrade would understand. John stopped fighting, and instead allowed himself to be laid back onto the bed. He cried softly for a time, whimpering.
"He's dead…" he breathed, "dead…"
And then he fell quietly asleep.
The second time John woke up, he opened his eyes almost straight away. He was lying in a hospital bed. That was odd.
It was a private room. That was odd, too.
A pale-faced Lestrade was dozing in a plastic chair. This was less odd, but it still puzzled John.
Why was he in hospital? In fact, at what point had he slipped into unconsciousness? The last thing he vividly remembered was Sherlock being taken away on a gurney. And why was he in a private room? Had Mycroft secured it? Why? And why was Lestrade there? He'd have thought that Lestrade would have a lot of work, what with… what with Sherlock…
"John…?"
John blinked. "Lestrade."
Lestrade broke a little at the reply. He visibly crumpled. "John, you… I thought… it looked… John…"
"Calm down Lestrade." John was genuinely concerned at his friend's distress, but his voice seemed unable to muster anything more than monotone.
"I'm sorry." He actually wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry, it's insensitive of me I know, it's just -"
"Why am I here?"
The DI's head snapped upwards. "What?"
"Why am I here?" he repeated. "Sherlock committed suicide. I ran over. Now I'm here."
"Sherlock…?"
Lestrade got up slowly, concern etched even deeper on his features. He left the room, his eyes never leaving John.
John fell back asleep.
The third time John woke up, there was a doctor in the room with him and Lestrade. Lestrade was sitting in a chair at the side of his bed now, rather than at the end. The doctor was standing up. Both were watching him intently.
"What?"
"John." Lestrade's voice was steady this time. "No matter what you think, we're friends."
"I do think we're friends."
"I need you to know that you can trust me and that you can talk to me, and that we can get through this."
"I know." John felt like there was something Lestrade wasn't telling him.
Lestrade looked at the doctor, who nodded, mutely. He leant forward even more and swallowed hard.
"John." He sighed. Looked away. Looked back at him. "There is no Sherlock. You attempted suicide."
So yup, John was the real genius. Reichebach only killed the imaginary figure in his brain. Will he now just be the John we see in the show? Or will he still be a genius? Up to you. Like I say, feel free to continue if you for any reason do, and please review if you enjoyed.