Author's note: Happy Easter, my friends. To celebrate, here have some Reichenbach feelings. And John feelings. And Sarah feelings.
I don't own anything, please review.
Despite what most people thought, she had never born John Watson a grudge. She had been the one to end it, but she hadn't been angry about it. At least not for long.
Sarah had always known what she was worth, what she deserved. And she had also seen what John Watson deserved.
And both of them had deserved something better than the relationship they'd had. Their holiday in New Zealand had made that absolutely clear.
It wasn't that they hadn't enjoyed each other's company, or the breath of fresh air every holiday brought; but John hadn't been the same man he was when he was in London, near Sherlock. He had been less patient, his attention sometimes wandering, away from her, back to a certain flat where the world's only consulting detective was most likely conducting rather dangerous experiments, now that his flatmate was gone for three weeks.
Sherlock still sent texts; apparently not even an enormous phone bill could keep him from that. And John, although he could definitely not afford it as much as Sherlock (she had seen the suits the man wore) always texted back. No matter where they were, what they did, he always answered. It was then that she realized.
She should have been everything John Watson had ever wanted. He should have been everything she had ever wanted. They were well-matched, liked the same books and shows, laughed a lot together. But it wouldn't work.
It could have worked, once upon a time. Before John Watson had served in Afghanistan, before he had seen the battlefield, before he had treated dying soldiers in the middle of the desert, before –
Before he had felt the adrenaline cursing through his veins, telling him that he was alive, time and time again.
They couldn't even have lasted if he had never met Sherlock Holmes. Without the consulting detective, without his best friend, John Watson would have become a mere shadow of the man he had once been, simply going through the motions, not truly alive.
Sarah didn't believe, had never believed that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were in love. Some of her colleagues even thought that was the reason they had split up. It wasn't. She didn't doubt that the doctor and his best friend loved each other, that they had meant everything to each other, but that didn't mean this love had to be sexual. And John Watson was most definitely straight.
But Sherlock Holmes had given John Watson a new purpose, and John Watson had become the companion Sherlock Holmes had needed without realizing it. Even she had seen it, although she had barely seen them together (Sherlock usually made a point of being absent when John invited her to Baker Street). They had belonged together, it was as simple as that.
And she would never be able to compete with that. John, she knew, wouldn't end things with her; he was convinced that this was what he wanted, a normal life, a normal girlfriend, maybe children at some point. But he didn't realize that it would never be enough. He needed Sherlock, needed the excitement, and in the end, he would always choose the consulting detective.
The thought that, one day, her and John could start a family and Sherlock would be content with letting John live his life, or even that John could be happy away from his best friend, had been laughable.
She had seen it. Everyone had seen it. John had been the only one not to see it.
So she had ended things after the holiday. She couldn't be sure, but she still thought she'd seen something like relief in his eyes.
They'd stayed friends, though. She had made a point of that, especially after he more or less stopped working at Bart's – Sherlock was simply taking too much of his time.
But it had taken Sherlock committing suicide – and in front of him, nonetheless – to tell John what the consulting detective had truly meant to him.
It had been four months now, and the doctor wasn't getting any better. He didn't work, he shut his friends out, he drank too much tea and remembered too much. He remembered everything from his life with Sherlock, and she was growing worried because he didn't seem to remember what they talked about a week ago, or who was the Prime minister (he had simply told her that "it didn't matter").
John Watson had lost more than his best friend that day. He had lost the life that he had loved.
In a way he never could have loved her.
They had both deserved better – she had wanted someone who could give her his whole heart, someone for whom she could, and would always be, the first choice.
And John Watson deserved Sherlock Holmes. It was easy as that. Only that she, unlike most people, thought it a compliment instead of an insult.
In the end, only she had got what she deserved. She had met Timothy a few months after her and John's break-up, and everything was going well. He even understood the need she felt to check up on her ex-boyfriend. She was in love with him, had been since their first date. She hadn't been in love with John, not really. She had been falling for him when she'd broken it off, but that wasn't the same, and one of the reasons she hadn't been angry with the doctor for long.
She tried to help him, like his former landlady (John had moved out after the funeral, too plagued by the memories) and the DI who had consulted Sherlock on cases (although she was beginning to suspect that he might be in need of help himself – his eyes looked almost as haunted as John's) and Mike Stamford did.
But there wasn't much they could do, especially since John refused to even come out of his flat most of the time. She had gone there a few times, asking to be let in, telling him that she thought it was unhealthy to shut himself up like this, but he'd simply said "You're right" and shut the door.
She knew he went to Sherlock's grave regularly. She had been there too, after the funeral, only once. She wanted to pay her respect without curious onlookers and reporters who only wanted to spoil Sherlock's good name even after his death.
John, she knew, went there far too often to ever truly move on. He still talked to the consulting detective's headstone – he had admitted as much to her one day when she'd succeeded in getting him out of his flat and into a pub. He still retained an interest in crime – sometimes, he became animated talking about a case he had read about in the newspaper, explaining to her why Sherlock would have liked it. She listened. It was the only thing she could do.
Aside from tearing to shreds every newspaper article that fell into her hands about Sherlock's so-called deception. She had seen the man work; she had been kidnapped because of it, for God's sake. And then –
Sherlock had come to their rescue. True, it had mainly been for John, but she couldn't imagine that the consulting detective would have left her behind. He had struggled to free her, to safe her, and had been almost strangled in the process.
No, Sherlock Holmes had been a good man. A brilliant man. A man who had done everything he needed to do to solve his cases. Being a doctor, she had often seen this kind of dedication, had felt it herself – but for some reason society had decided that Sherlock's obsession was bad.
Because he put criminals behind bars, apparently.
She couldn't imagine what John must feel about the articles if they made her so angry – he wouldn't tell her, that much was sure. He never really mentioned Kitty Riley's articles, or Sherlock's suicide; he always talked about his "passing". She respected his wishes.
Sarah didn't know what to do or say to make John Watson whole again – there was no medicine she could describe, no words to soothe his grief. The only thing that could help –
Of course it was madness to think so, but –
She had a feeling if anyone could beat death, Sherlock Holmes would be the one to do it.
She only hoped, looking at John, that if he did, he would do it sooner rather than later.
Author's note: Trying to give her a character. I'm quite happy with this, btw.
Once again, Happy Easter!