Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of this. In fact, there are a zillion fics on the immediate aftermath of Reichenbach so I'm hardly original. This is just my spin on things.
"Oh Jesus…Sherlock…" he was falling, the ground was getting closer. He was dizzy and groggy. He wanted to vomit; he could feel his insides rising into his throat.
People were taking Sherlock away. People, anyone, two people. They didn't matter. But it was Sherlock. Sherlock mattered. Sherlock so much more than mattered.
"Sherlock…" He gasped. He was hyper ventilating- he remembered this feeling through the fog of everything that was going on. This feeling was horrific, but familiar. The dizzying lack of control. The inability to stay calm, the racing pulse and the adrenaline. It was a panic attack.
"Sh-Sherlock!" he cried. Sherlock couldn't hear him, John didn't know if anyone else could either. He'd lost all concept of reality. This wasn't real, it couldn't be. It was just one of his nightmares. One of those terrifying nightmares, like when he came back from Afghanistan. He'd woken up many a night in this state, sweating, gasping, choking.
Only John wasn't waking up. He crammed his eyes shut and he wasn't anywhere different when he opened them. There was still a woman crouched next to him, a few pedestrians staring at the pool of blood on the floor. Sherlock's blood. Sherlock had gone now; where had Sherlock gone? He shouldn't be alone, he was never alone. He hated hearing people think -but he hated being alone.
"Sherlock…" John murmured, finally succumbing to the blackness.
"Can you hear me? John, can you hear me?" John opened his eyes slowly. He had moved, but only a short distance. Was it too much to hope that he might have been sleepwalking, this wasn't real and Sherlock wasn't…
"John?" John knew that voice. He could see the figure in front of him, but for some reason couldn't recognise it. John could barely feel the pavement beneath him, let alone make out acquaintances. He could feel the patter of the rain on his skin, but it had no effect. John didn't know whether he was cold or hot; he didn't care either.
Was Sherlock cold or still warm?
"Sherlock!" John called.
"It's all he's said since…" the female pedestrian was still there, talking to John's familiar voice; Lestrade, who looked at him, the wave of sadness covering him also. Donovan was there too, murmuring away, taking statements from various pedestrians.
John sat up.
"Easy now," Lestrade warned with an arm around John's shoulders. "You've had quite a knock to the head."
John was confused. But also fairly certain it wasn't the knock to the head making him feel like this.
"John, can you hear me?"
John nodded.
"Good. We're just going to get a paramedic to check you over."
John shook his head. "No…no doctors,"
"John, please."
John didn't quite understand why there was a paramedic about. It was fairly obvious Sherlock wasn't…unless, unless they'd managed to save him?
"Sherlock!"
Lestrade grimaced. "He's…" Lestrade struggled for a minute, a passing moment of vulnerability easily shown in his eyes. "He's gone, John."
John nodded, tears filling his eyes. "Mmm." He managed.
The paramedic came over as Lestrade gripped John's shoulder tightly. "John…it's OK."
John shook his head. "No." he muttered.
Lestrade squeezed tighter.
"What's your name, sir?" The paramedic asked.
John swallowed before answering gruffly. "John Watson."
"And your address?"
John gasped, Lestrade shut his eyes.
"Your address, sir?" The paramedic pressed.
John shook his head.
"221B, Baker Street." Lestrade answered for him. "He shared with-,"
"Sherlock!" John cried. He didn't care that the paramedic couldn't tell if he was concussed; concussion wouldn't make grief any easier to deal with. He didn't care that he was acting like a madman. He just wanted… "Sherlock…" he croaked.
Lestrade's hands began to shake, his fingers quivering on John's shoulder.
The paramedic looked between them both, hesitating before asking a final question.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Two." John whispered, barely looking up.
The paramedic nodded, and wrapped a blanket around him.
It was orange. It reminded John of Sherlock's Study in Pink – John's first blog to get more than 3 hits.
John began to cry.
"It's OK, John. Just let it out. Let it out." Donovan looked over, as Lestrade comforted the crying man. Seeing her face, John froze in his tracks. He shrugged off Lestrade's arm and stormed over to Donovan.
"Are you happy?" he asked her. "Are you happy?"
"Wh-what?" She stammered, shocked. She looked over John's shoulder, where John knew Lestrade would be on his toes.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Sherlock out of the frame? Sherlock gone? Sherlock DEAD!"
Donovan shook her head. "John, I just wanted justice-,"
"JUSTICE?" John bellowed. "Sherlock is DEAD, and it is YOUR FAULT. You thought he did it all, you believed Richard bloody Brook and it is because of you and your stupid bloody force that Sherlock Holmes is…" John trailed off.
"John. John, come on, no one wanted this, and you have to admit, it did look a little bit-," Lestrade stopped as John turned back round to him.
"And you?" John paused for a moment, a tear in his eye. "You were supposed to be his friend."
Lestrade gulped. "I was."
"Then why didn't you help him?" it wasn't so much a question; John knew the answer. It was a statement, an answer, a summary to the past few days.
"Friends help each other. Friends support one another. Friends deal with each other's issues. Sherlock is…"John stopped. "Sherlock…w-was…the greatest friend."
Lestrade didn't react, but a tear fell down his cheeks. "I'm sorry." He breathed.
"Do you believe he was innocent?" John asked, aware of the eyes of every officer watching his every move. He was probably perceived as dangerous now, reckless at the least.
Lestrade nodded.
"Good. That's…good." John's hunched shoulders relaxed. He looked at Lestrade, his broken stance, his pale complexion, and the loss in his eyes. "I…I don't…" John sighed, feeling his voice cracking as he admitted what he was feeling. "I don't know what to…do." His voice broke again.
Donovan looked at Lestrade and John sympathetically, despite John's anger having been directed at her.
"Greg? Perhaps you should go home?" She offered gently.
Lestrade shook his head. "No, I'd…erm…I'd better finish up here."
"I can do it." She persisted. "Take John home. He might need some help."
John looked at her in confusion for a moment. Then, with a sinking, gut-wrenching feeling inside he remembered; Mrs Hudson.
John exhaled. How would he tell Mrs Hudson? How could he tell her? He looked to Lestrade, who nodded. "Come on, John. Let's get you home."
John shook his head. "It's not…it's not home anymore." He mumbled.
"We still need to take you there." Lestrade pulled John by the arm. "If you're ready."
John knew he'd never be ready. He didn't want to leave. Maybe if he stared at the pool of watered down scarlet liquid long enough, it would vanish, the whole thing would never have happened.
But John looked around, at Donovan, at Lestrade, at all the police officers, soaking wet in the pouring rain; the perfect scene for a tragedy. Lestrade was shaking; either through shock or the cold. And John still, somehow, had his orange blanket wrapped around him. He shrugged it off. "Yes please."
The two men sat in silence in Lestrade's Volvo, outside 221B Baker Street. John wasn't ready to go inside yet.
Lestrade was leaning on the steering wheel, his head on his clasped hands, looking at John to check the man hadn't fallen apart.
John felt numb. Cold and numb. Home had never been so unappealing.
"Mycroft?" He asked Lestrade.
Lestrade shifted slightly in his seat. "He's already been told. Donovan sent a couple of officers to him while you were passed out. I expect you'll be getting a phone call later on."
"How long was I out?" John asked, not really caring.
Lestrade shrugged. "About six minutes? You were starting to come round as I sat down next to you."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
John knew they never would.
"I can't stay here." John croaked. "Not with all the-,"
"You haven't been in yet, John. It might be better than you think."
"Yeah. And the grief will go away in the blink of an eye."
Lestrade half smiled. "Did you hurt your foot when you were knocked down, John?"
John frowned. "No, why?"
"You were limping while we walked to the car."
John shut his eyes. What would his psychotherapist make of that then?
"It's fine." He lied.
"Anyway, you can stay with me. Pack a bag, you can stay at mine. The wife won't mind."
"She's still with you then?"
"No. That's why she won't mind."
This time John almost smiled. His face hurt to smile, like it was going against nature. But it helped, talking to Lestrade. The joking, the conversation, it took his mind off what was going to happen. He'd have to speak to Mrs Hudson the moment he got through that door.
Lestrade squeezed his shoulder. "I can do it if you want?" he offered.
John shook his head. "No, it ought to be me, if Mycroft hasn't done it already."
"Then…" Lestrade ventured. "Perhaps you ought to do it. Get it over with. Only, the press will be all over this, and if you're not careful-,"
"I know." John took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. "Come on then."
John's knees were shaky as he stepped out of the car. His limbs trembled, and as he walked down the pavement, Lestrade locking the car and then five paces behind him, John realised he'd been right; he was limping. He'd forgotten the sensation. Then they were there, outside the door to 221B Baker Street. John fumbled in his pocket for the key, as Lestrade caught up. But the door opened before John could manage.
"Where have you been?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "I was so worried- it's not like Sherlock to go off without a word, but you, John, you don't!" Mrs Hudson caught sight of Lestrade. "Oh, hello Greg!" She beamed. "Would you like some tea, there's a fresh pot on?"
"If that's all right with you that would be lovely."
Mrs Hudson led the two men into her flat, though they both knew the way. "Milk, sugar?" She asked innocently.
John ached, holding in this piece of information that would ultimately only hurt her. Their kind landlady.
"M-Mrs Hudson, sit down. I'll make it." Lestrade insisted, letting Mrs Hudson sit. John fell into the armchair opposite to her.
"There's been an incident, Mrs Hudson." John began, trembling violently. He wished he still had that blanket.
"Incident? Are you all right, dear?" She frowned.
Lestrade clinked the tea cups loudly.
"Careful with those!" Mrs Hudson called over to him. "Come on, John, spit it out, what's happened?" Mrs Hudson frowned again. "Where's Sherlock?"
John sighed. "You know those nasty rumours, Mrs Hudson? About Sherlock?"
Mrs Hudson nodded, confused.
"And you know they weren't true, right?"
Mrs Hudson nodded again. "Oh you boys haven't got into more bother have you? You haven't locked him up?" Mrs Hudson asked Lestrade directly.
"No." He murmured. "Let John finish, Mrs Hudson."
Mrs Hudson turned back to face John. "Go on, dear."
John took a deep breath. "Sherlock…Sherlock's gone."
"On the run?"
John shook his head, before moving onto the floor, crouching to have eye contact with Mrs Hudson. He put his hands over hers.
"M-Mrs Hudson. Sherlock…Sherlock…"John took a deeper breath. "Sherlock's dead." He gasped.
Mrs Hudson said nothing for a moment, before wrapping her arms around John's shoulders and pulling him into a maternal cuddle. There was nothing for either of them to say, but they cried. They cried into each other for the best part of ten minutes, as Lestrade wiped his own tears.
Everyone in the room had lost Sherlock. Lost a friend. Lost a man they'd, in their own ways, loved.
There was no going back.
Sherlock had changed too many lives to just be forgotten, or to leave without a trace.
Sherlock had escaped; but John was trapped.