It had been a few months since Sherlock's death, and John was yet to be successful in moving on. In getting back his old life. The one that he had before meeting the consulting one in which he'd been sure that he was an ordinary person who wanted an ordinary wife and the ordinary average of two and a half ordinary kids. But the life he'd had with Sherlock was the life he never knew he wanted. Sherlock had him hooked from the word 'dangerous' and he had never looked back.
That was, until now.
John was suddenly and forcefully pushed back into a life without Sherlock Holmes; the man who'd he'd accepted as so gladly into his life, and the man that had suddenly, and quite literally, fallen out of it without explanation. And now, John could never know what had drove him onto that rooftop, and he could never dissuade the thought that it was his fault.
The first few weeks without Sherlock were not much dissimilar to what John imagined to be Hell. Sherlock would argue with John on that, because Hell is a fictitious idea created to scare people into a certain set of ideals, naturally, but the detective wasn't exactly there to argue the point. John didn't do much but just sit alone in the cheap flat he'd rented far on the south side of London, away from Baker Street. He occasionally regretted his decision of moving so far away, and sometimes he didn't. There were too many memories in 221B, but sometimes it felt like he'd left them behind rather than run away from them.
In short, John's life had been shattered by Sherlock's fall and at first he didn't know how to put it back together. He almost didn't want to put it back together. He didn't want to accept that there was a life, without Sherlock, waiting for him in the near future. A part of him still wanted to believe that the great detective was alive; that he'd heard his words in the graveyard, somehow. Really, it was the only thing keeping him going. He knew what Sherlock was capable of; he had faith in him, and he still did. After all, he couldn't believe half the things that Sherlock had said on the roof top. He hadn't researched him before they met, and he certainly wasn't a fake.
And surely, if those things were a lie, then… He'd come back.
John had had many sleepless nights debating why exactly Sherlock had faked his death, and why he was yet to reappear. He remembered his first meeting with Mycroft. "He does love to be dramatic." If you couldn't call jumping off a building to your own fake death dramatic, John didn't know what was. He had to have had a reason.
Weeks slipped by into months, and John had looked at the newspapers, had written down their conversation on the phone to the best of his ability and highlighted important bits, and had even tried interviewing people at St Barts about that day (though he could barely find anyone that had been in that crowd), John was in no better a position on the matter of Sherlock's suicide than when he started.
Once deciding that maybe Sherlock wasn't coming back after all, John found it a little easier to get on with his life. He didn't want to believe it but he had to be practical. Lestrade had asked him several times if he was interested in helping with cases, as he was 'the next-best thing' to the great consulting detective, and had suggested it would help, but John didn't want to ruin the nostalgia of a crime scene by going to one without Sherlock. He supposed it was a psychological association, but really, he didn't much mind it.
These were all typical signs of grief and 'emotional trauma', apparently. That's what his therapist had called it. He'd gone back since Sherlock jumped. She didn't help much, John thought, but it the mere action of going helped him to get out of the flat. She reassured him that what he was feeling was normal, as if that helped somehow, but there was still a look of concern in her face when she thought he wasn't looking. He felt like he couldn't share what he was feeling with her. Or anyone. The tremors were back, too, and the nightmares. He was fortunate enough that he hadn't gone back to needing a cane again, and the nightmares weren't as bad as they used to be, because at least he saw Sherlock in them sometimes now. Even if he was jumping off a building.
Being a soldier, he had, of course, had a certain amount of practice of grieving over friends, but he thought he had left all that behind in Afghanistan. He never had nightmares about their deaths. He didn't think he'd need to go through the pain of losing someone close to him again, but this time was so much worse. Sherlock was his best friend. He not only had a duty of care, like a doctor did his patient, but also a duty of trust. John trusted Sherlock more than anyone yes, he was sad. But he also found himself angry. Angry that Sherlock left him. Angry that he didn't see any signs of his suicide before it was too late. Angry that Sherlock didn't trust him in return.
Gradually, more and more often, John went out to pubs with the friends he had left and had a chat and a drink, and somewhere it had changed from strained, polite conversation to lively chatter and laughter that John found himself immersed in. He worked harder at his job and earned a promotion, even tried dating a few times, although John never got much past third dates. He liked to think it was just that Sherlock had rubbed off on him so much that he was now an expert at ruining his own chances with women. Despite the evidence, he didn't want to say he was moving on - he didn't really want to let Sherlock go.
Not quite yet.
—
At first, John was quite oblivious to the vile talk about his best friend, but around him, the name Sherlock Holmes became synonymous with fraud and scandal.
John managed to avoid the worst of it by staying secluded in his flat, but once he started going out again he couldn't help but overhear conversations about the former Sherlock Holmes; and it made him angry. Usually, he was able to clench his jaw, or tighten his hand around his beer glass, and ignore it. These people didn't know Sherlock like he did, after all, they only had what the media told them. Sherlock Holmes was a fake in their minds. They were entitled to their opinions, even if they couldn't be more wrong. John was mature - he could do this. Eventually, people would forget about him and find some other notable figure to talk shit about over their pints at the pub. That was how gossip worked.
Except it didn't happen like that all.
It was a Friday evening, nearly a year since Sherlock's suicide, and John was proud to say he'd nearly completely moved on, or so he believed. He had just ordered a beer from the bar at the local pub. He had started to see Sarah again, and they'd planned to meet here for a date, but John had just received a text saying that she was sorry but she couldn't make it. John couldn't help but find that funny, when he used to be the one having to cancel dates last minute. So, here he was, sat at the bar and staring into the amber liquid in the glass in his hands.
"–that guy that jumped off that hospital last year? "
John's focus suddenly came back to him as he tuned into the voice behind him. He looked up from his drink, scanning the bar for the mouth that had formed those words. He could feel an uneasiness settle in his stomach as he waited for the conversation to unfold.
"He was a detective, right? What was his name?" Another voice replied. "Something Holmes? He had an odd first name, I remember that." The voice laughed, and the others, about four of them, joined in.
John tapped his glass. They weren't even saying anything particularly horrible, but it made John tense as he listened. Why did they think they had the right to talk about Sherlock like he was some kind of joke?
"He only jumped because the police found out he'd killed people, though, remember?"
Oh, no.
"He set up all those crimes and then pretended to solve them. He was a fraud. And a psychopath, at that. I say, thank god he's gone." All this came from a man with a gruff voice, and, judging by the slight hesitancy in his tone, he'd had one too many to drink.
"Andrew, you can't say that!" A woman's voice replied in a hushed tone, but John could tell she was smiling. She agreed, even if she thought it was improper to say it out loud.
"No, I mean, honestly, what kind of demented person kills people to make themselves look good?"
Maybe John had had too much to drink, too.
John got up without really thinking about what he was going to do. But, the words were echoing around John's skull now, making one clear to him. This had to stop.
His gaze found the man - Andrew, and he walked up to him with a sureness in his stride, before he could say another word about Sherlock.
No one on the table noticed John until he grabbed the collar of Andrew's shirt, pulling him back from the chair he was sat on, and both the chair and its occupant clattered to the floor.
"Shut up about Sherlock Holmes," John spat ferociously. He didn't care about who was watching. He was seeing red, and he'd kept his anger pent up for so long. The man gave him a slightly confused look, evidently slightly scared.
"What?"
"You heard me!" John exclaimed, shaking him once viciously. He could feel the silence on all sides now, but he was too mad to care in the slightest.
Suddenly, the man's expression changed, as if he recognised John. He smirked slightly. "Hold on, you're that bloke that lived with—"
"Shut up!" John yelled, cutting him off sharply with a punch to the face. The man let out an involuntary "ooft" and grimaced.
"You don't know anything!"
John was vaguely aware that he was sounding like an offended child- but he was just so angry. He punched the man again, harder. The lady with him was now trying and failing to get John off of him.
John pulled his hand back for another punch, this time aiming for the stomach, when he was suddenly grabbed from behind by a strong pair of arms, and pulled back. John yelled profusely for this new person to get off of him, but he was still being dragged backwards. He tried to turn around but the man's arms were locked tightly so that his upper half couldn't move an inch. He struggled against the man and shouted more. Evidently, the man got tired of John's voice as he put a large hand over his mouth to muffle the large amount of noise he was making.
John was pulled through the doors of the pub, and as he was taken out, he saw the judgmental, even scared looks some people were giving him. That caused him to calm down somewhat. He was scaring a lot of people; some of whom he recognised as regulars to the pub like himself. The arms that had been restraining him let go once they were out on the pavement, but John was still staring through the front window at the man he'd just attacked. He had a bloody nose. John hadn't even noticed.
John felt a little sick all of a sudden; he couldn't believe he'd just done that to a really rather innocent person.
"Oi- don't even think of going back in there, mate," his kidnapper warned in a gruff voice. John looked at the man. He had to move his gaze up by quite a bit to see his face. He was a tall man with a strong build. He had messy light blonde hair that stuck out at odd angles, like he'd just chopped chunks off when he felt they'd gotten too long. He had piercing blue eyes, which John quickly ignored, as they were similar to Sherlock's. Everything else, however, was very not Sherlock. The man wore a grey t-shirt and scruffy dark jeans. John also noticed the twisted, pale skin on the man's left bicep, as if he'd broken his arm or been shot.
John licked his lips before smiling politely. "Uh- no. No, I'm not going to," he laughed quietly. "Thanks for taking me out of there. God knows what I would've done to that poor bloke." He ran a hand through his hair, his breathing still slightly heavy as he calmed down.
The man looked at him skeptically. John wasn't surprised that he didn't quite believe him. "I'm John," he blurted, wanting to quickly change the subject and forget this mess. He noticed the man cracked a small smirk.
"You're a very angry guy, John," he muttered. John didn't really know how to respond to that; but he assumed he was joking and smiled awkwardly. "Yeah…" He muttered quietly.
The man stuck out his hand and John took it. The taller man shook the other's hand firmly, with a tight grip, but John didn't flinch away.
"I'm Sebastian."