A/N: As far as warnings go, this fic gets pretty dark at some points. Lots of angst. Lots of heartbroken John. I'd call it hurt/comfort but there isn't really much comfort... oops. Sadness aside it was inspired by my psychology glass in which we are learning how people deal with grief, which generally goes in five stages. They will be short, but five chapters nonetheless. Enjoy torturing yourselves, my loves
Stage 1:
Denial/Isolation
For weeks after the fall, all John seemed to do was lie. He lied to everyone, about everything, and usually for no reason in particular. Somehow it made him feel a bit better to be in control of something- at least that was how he justified it. He knew nobody believed him, and he saw the pitying looks. He noticed everybody staring and whispering, even though they didn't think he could hear. He knew damn well none of them believed a word out of his mouth. Sometimes lying is just easier than admitting the truth.
"No really, I'm fine."
"Yes Mrs. Hudson, I'll be okay."
"I've got other plans, I can't come out for drinks tonight."
"Everything is alright."
"I'm getting better."
Every once in a while John could even convince himself that there wasn't a tombstone with his best friend's name on it half a mile away. It was so much easier to sit around the flat and form reality like it was made of clay. To bend and twist the truth until it no longer hurt to think about. If he sat down in his usual armchair, laptop resting on his knees, sipping a cup of his favorite tea, it didn't seem so impossible that Sherlock might burst through the door at any moment. It didn't seem so impossible that he might be asleep behind the closed door of his bedroom, or perhaps at Bart's with Molly. He could be with Lestrade- in fact, he could be anywhere in London. He could be on the tube back to the flat right now, or sitting in the backseat of a cab. Maybe he was out getting milk for once, although that seemed unlikely.
It was still easier to believe than the truth. What John knew was the truth.
Sherlock was anywhere but dead. Anywhere but in a grave.
And every morning John continued to make two cups of tea. Sherlock never usually drank those anyway, so it wasn't abnormal to see it cold and untouched by midday just where he'd left it. John left the science equipment exactly where it was, not wanting to disturb whatever experiment Sherlock had going. He knew how mad Sherlock could get when his slides and specimens got moved, or "contaminated" as he would put it. John didn't touch Sherlock's sock index, or his unmade bed. He left his skull exactly where it had always been, and he left the opened files from their last case together strewn across the desk exactly where Sherlock had left them.
After a few weeks, he ignored the dust that settled on top of his things, because John knew what that meant.
Mrs. Hudson kept telling John this wouldn't be good for him, going on pretending like he was still there. John knew she was right.
But he also knew if there were no test tubes in the kitchen, no skull on the mantle, no cup of cold tea on the counter, no body parts in the refrigerator, no sock index and no unmade bed waiting for Sherlock when he got back, John was going to start believing he was really dead, and he couldn't admit that. Not yet.
He wasn't ready to admit the greatest man he'd ever known was gone.
No, Sherlock would be back soon to fill his empty chair. He would be back soon to fill the silence.