The Fall, a sherlock fanfic

I felt the need to write angst, I've been down and crying a lot recently, writing angst makes it a little better and made me feel a lot better. I wrote this in two hours, from 11:30 to 00:45 last night.

I really hope you enjoy it

John opened up his blog page for the first time since Sherlock died, staring at the little cursor flashing on and off against the white screen. Since Sherlock's death, he'd heard nothing from Mycroft, not a phone call, a text, it was like he'd never existed in Sherlock's life at all. He kept staring at the cursor on the screen.

Blink

Nothing he could write would fix this, make it any easier, he needed Sherlock Holmes in his life, needed that wonderfully mad detective to come sweeping in and chase away that limp, make him run and feel something, now he just felt numb.

Since Sherlock had died, he could feel nothing; every day he woke with a stabbing pain in his chest that was not real, he carried around the guilt every single day.

He should have died on that night, not Sherlock, brilliant, beautiful, smart Sherlock. The world needed the only consulting detective, it needed the only one in the world, it did not need another invalided soldier to join the rapidly swelling ranks it already had. John had no purpose in life except to help Sherlock, to make him feel worth something, praise his brilliance.

But now that Sherlock was gone, he'd lost that purpose and lost all there was in his life. He'd lost everything that day Sherlock had died. He'd lost a friend, a best friend, and a family; because as much as he hated to admit, Mycroft was like part of his family. He'd lost it all. He lost more than a friend, he lost 'the one' and he didn't care how corny it sounded.

He lost the man he loved that day, and he wished every day that it had been him that had died. Harry was there for a bit, trying to comfort him; but they never got along, and soon enough she found more solace in the bottle than talking to John who was mostly unresponsive when she asked questions.

"Did you love him?"

"..."

"Did he love you?"

"..."

There wasn't a 'did' John still does, and he has a feeling he always will. Sarah never gave up on him, she was there for the funeral, a quiet comfort to stand by his side. John never spoke the words out loud 'I love you, Sherlock Holmes.' Seemed to be the hardest thing to say, and she knew. Even when they went back and had sex that night, for John's sake, to make him forget, she knew.

They never really spoke after that night, casual passing acquaintances, and when John quit his job at the surgery, they never saw one another anymore. John was glad, Sarah always wanted to talk about Sherlock, he never did, he didn't want to bear his soul to her, discuss the man he loved. Loves. He never really stopped.

Since Sherlock died, he closed up, retreated into himself. His therapist gave him pills he never took, asked him to update his blog, which he never did, and referred him to a psychiatric clinic that he never made an appointment with. He couldn't find words to describe this pain, this exquisite and sharp pain that pulsed through his veins every day. It wasn't that Sherlock had left him, no it ran worse than that, it was that Sherlock had left him on his own; no one had ever made him feel wanted the way Sherlock did, and now that was gone he had nothing to live for.

Some would call him pathetic, he lost a lover and a friend, move on; but Sherlock was so much more, he was the only one like him in the world, and now he was gone. It left a wound so deep it had never healed, and now, with every breath, he felt the blood stir beneath his skin and rush out of the old scar that pulsed in time with his heartbeat every day. He missed the lack of personal space and the way Sherlock would know how he was feeling, sometimes before he did.

He missed the touch of hands, how he felt safest when Sherlock was securely held in his arms, how that when he listened to Sherlock's heartbeat in the same bed at night, it had made him feel so calm. He missed the little things, the brushing kisses when he straightened Sherlock's scarf, or the lingering looks when John came out of his bedroom in pyjamas. He missed all these things and more, missed waking up from a nightmare in Sherlock's arms, they never had to say a word, Sherlock just kissed John's scarred shoulder and then John would settle again, his fists unclenching on the bedcovers as Sherlock took his hand and stroked it with the pad of his thumb.

He missed Sherlock appearing at his door when he had a manic idea that left his eyes glimmering and sparkling, missed the way that Sherlock ate, majestic and graceful. He missed the precise colour of eyes that he could never pin down, but having once looked it up on the Internet discovered it was 'Glasz' and it was beautiful, almost ethereal. He just missed Sherlock, plain and simple. He looked back up at the cursor, mocking him as he watched the cursor blink slowly and rhythmically.

Blink

He reached for the keyboard, resting his fingers on the black keys that were stiff now from lack of use, and a thousand memories of Sherlock sat in this very seat, typing and breaking into his laptop washed through him.

Sherlock Holmes

That was the title, plain and simple.

Sherlock Holmes, where do I start?

You were... No you are my best friend in the world, the only one in the world you told me once, and you were, you always will be, the only one for me. I miss you every single day, every fucking day without you is torture. It's hard to believe it's been three years now.

You'd be ashamed of me now. If you could see me, maybe you can, I hope not.

I never cried at your funeral, I hope you can forgive me for that. I never cried, crying would have made it real for me. I never cried.

I never told anyone I loved you. Harry knew, of course, but we don't talk any more. And Mrs Hudson knew, how could she not? She walked in on us enough times. And Sarah... Poor sweet Sarah. I used her you know, to take the pain away the first night without you. We don't talk any more.

Mycroft doesn't talk to me either, oh he keeps tabs but he never talks to me any more, not since you died. It's like I was never part of your life. I think he blames me. I blame me.

He'll be reading this now.

Where was I? Oh yes... I never cried, I didn't cry when Molly broke down in my arms and wept, the day she remembered my name for the first time because I wasn't with you. I just comforted her as best as I could, but I never cried. I hope you forgive me that.

I never cried when Mrs Hudson made enough tea for both of us when I went to see her a few weeks after you died, even though she did, against my chest, onto that jumper you liked. I never cried then.
I never cried when I went through your wardrobe, I lay in a bed of your clothes and breathed in your scent that night, but I never cried. Even when your clothes stopped smelling like you. I thought I'd forget your scent, but I didn't, of course I didn't, nor did I forget what you looked like even though there are hardly any pictures of you around. How could I? I memorised you in every detail, every inch of skin catalogued in my mind.

Mycroft, I know you're reading this

And I need you to see this

The only time I cried was when I went through to pockets of your coat and found that box, that small box that fit in the palm of my hand. I knew what it was, and I knew then that you were being serious that you meant it when you'd asked me to marry you the morning before you died. We were lying in your bed, together, and you asked me if I would marry you.

I said yes.

And then you died. I remember finding that box and just swaying in shock, then sliding down the wall and weeping until I fell asleep.

It fit me, the ring.

How could it not? You chose it.

It fits me. I wear it every day. On my dog tag chain, so I wear them close to my chest. You loved those, the feel of that smooth metal on your skin made shivers run down your spine

John paused to wipe away tears and then continued.

Not a day goes by when I don't think about you in some way, you are the first thing I think of in the morning and the last name on my lips as I fall asleep.
It's so hard without you, the nightmares are more frequent now, and I don't have you there to soothe them away.

I miss you

I love you

John paused and then clicked the 'upload photo' button.
It was a photo taken in early spring, Lestrade had sent it to John in an email, and it was the only photo of Sherlock and him together. They were standing by the bank of the Thames, John laughing and looking carefree, Sherlock holding his hand slyly and observing him, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. The caption Lestrade had sent it with was:

Sherlock and you, you made him from a great man into a good man
Thank you.

John hit publish, tears tracking down his cheeks. He felt that familiar lurch in his chest and almost cried out.

Half an hour later, his phone buzzed. It was Harry.

John, you can't be alone right now. Come over, now.

He ignored it and threw his phone across the room.

He never updated his blog again, not ever, not in the four months following that post. One day he came in from shopping, relatively painless compared to shopping sometimes and sat down in his chair, staring blankly at the wall opposite him.

"John?" It was tentative, quiet and oh so familiar.

No no it can't be he died, I must be finally losing it, he can't be here no he died.

"John please." John stood and looked at the door. Sherlock Holmes was stood in the doorway, his hair longer, he was skinnier, his clothes were tattered and ripped. He looked in pain, he looked malnourished, but he looked alive. So alive. John stepped forwards, feeling as though he was in a dream. He placed the palm of his hand against Sherlock's thin chest.

Thump thump

The steady heartbeat calmed him.

"How?" Sherlock explained the fall, explained that Moriarty had escaped, that Mycroft had made him choose between keeping John safe or going back and putting him in danger, choose between his love and his love's life. He explained that it was the hardest decision he ever made, that he could understood if John never wanted to see him again, but before he made that decision he wanted to prove it to him. With a trembling hand, Sherlock reached into his inside breast pocket and drew out a folded slip of paper. A printout of John's blog, and inside it, protected, the photo of them together on glossy paper.

"I'm so sorry, nothing I can say will make it better. But I love you, I never stopped." John looked at the tall man in front of him, the man he was convince he'd lost forever.

"Don't go." He forced past his thick tongue. "Don't go, I just got you back." He was crying without realising it. "I need you."

"If you still want me, I won't go." John reached for Sherlock, placing his hands on his shoulders and going up onto tiptoes to get at his mouth. It was a hurried kiss, full of everything John wanted to say, it was full of need and words left unspoken.

"Don't go. I still love you, I never stopped. Please don't go." Sherlock took his hands, a ghost of his old smile on his face.

They spent that night lying together, Sherlock cried, John cried and they held each other until it was over, until they were just intertwined.

"I love you, please please don't go again. Please." John whispered against the curve of Sherlock's neck, oh god he was here, so alive and so warm, so real, so perfect. John closed his eyes and reached for Sherlock again, finally, he'd survived the fall and now they could rebuild. Moriarty was dead. It was over. John just breathed in and out, finally, finally it was over and he could begin again. He just had to remember to breathe.

Review if you have the time

Erin xx