It was a cold and dreary London day when Lestrade and Donovan came knocking. John knew why they were there: a tricky double murder/suicide. Sherlock would have loved it. Sherlock would have- he wouldn't have slept for days, or eaten anything unless John forced him. He would have been happy and alive…alive the only way a mystery could make him.
But that would never be anymore.
Because he was-
'I don't know why you're here Greg. I am of no use to you.' It hurt to speak such truth, the realization that he had never been of any importance except as the human buffer between Sherlock and the world.
And in the end, even that wasn't enough. The world had turned on him anyway. And John had been unable to keep him save.
'…knew him best, John. This one is getting weird.' Lestrade had apparently been talking about the case but John was watching Donovan. Watching how she refused to meet his gaze, how she fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable. Sherlock would have picked her apart in seconds. But he wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock was-
Dead. Gone. Shamed. Tarnished.
And there, something small, something John had never noticed before, broke. Like a dam bursting, unfamiliar rage came pouring out. Rage so hot he was burning inside out and it was going to consume him. It needed a place to go. It needed a target.
Donovan.
'How dare you.' Surprisingly it came out first as a whisper, small but fierce. Donovan's head jerked up in surprise, Lestrade fell silent.
'How dare you come here. How dare you ask for my help. Sherlock is dead! He's dead because of you! You were so quick to betray him because it all made sense didn't it? You wanted so badly to believe he was a fake. Because he out shone you! He made you feel small and insignificant! But guess what. He's gone and people keep dying! People are dying, the cases keep coming and the only difference is that you can't solve them! Because you needed him!
Because he was the best-
He was…'
And suddenly John was unbelievably tired, so dreadfully tired, so very drained as the rage left him, leaving only a terrible cold.
Slowly he limped back to his chair and collapsed into it.
'John…'began Lestrade
'Just leave me alone. I can't help you.'
Long after Lestrade and Donovan had left, and long after Mrs. Hudson had silently brought him now cold tea, John remained sitting, staring at the empty chair across from him.
He could still remember all the different ways Sherlock used to sit on that chair. Perched like a cat when he was thinking; sprawled across it when he was bored; bouncing around when he was excited, unable to sit still.
There were other times when they would just sit silently, staring at each other. They hadn't needed words anymore. Sherlock could always read John like a well-loved book, dog-eared, worn-out spine, softly caressed pages.
But to John, Sherlock had been a tome, pristine pages, stiff-backed, sharp enough to leave paper cuts. But John had been learning. Learning little by little, everything Sherlock projected.
He could tell when Sherlock was upset or happy by the creases around his eyes. When he was uncomfortable by the way he fidgeted with his hands…how his posture changed when Mycroft was in the room…
He could identify all the smiles Sherlock could produce in a single day.
There were the client smiles, Mycroft smiles, 'Anderson is an idiot' smiles, 'I have a secret' smiles, 'the thrill of the chase' smiles, Mrs. Hudson smiles…
But his favorite smile was the one specially reserved for him. For when they were all alone, not talking yet saying so much. Saying what words couldn't convey. And Sherlock would smile at him. He could have lived off that smile forever and never be in need of anything else. That special smile lit up Sherlock's face so brightly, so beautifully it was breathtaking. That smile sent shivers down his spine. That smile filled his head with whispered 'I love you's that it never needed to be said out loud. That smile reminded John why he fell in love with Sherlock in the first place.
But there were no smiles anymore.
There was only cold leather and memories.
And the pain in his leg, the shaking of his hand.
And the smiles John practiced for when he had to pretend to be happy.