Hey guys, I know it's been a while since I've written! But, finally I have found some inspiration! This is what happens when I watch Sherlock, again for the billionth time :P I got all the feels and had to write a post-Reichenbach story. Even though I know there are probably so many others, my mind just wouldn't shut up. So, this happened. The characters might be out of character, sorry if they are. Oh, I should just mention that I am an American and don't have much knowledge about British terms, so sorry in advance if I get anything wrong. Johnlock will obviously come in later.

I sat down on my chair, the one across from where Sherlock used to sit and think about cases. Silence reined down heavy on the flat. Their was no sound except for the London traffic moving about outside. The skull stared down at me from the mantle. The yellow graffiti smiley face smiled grotesquely on the wall, bullet holes surrounding it. I sighed and slowly placed my face in my hands. Sherlock was gone. He was... dead. My best friend was dead. He died about 5 months ago, jumped off the roof of St. Barts. I witnessed everything, and it was the 2nd most terrifying thing I've experienced next to war.

Everything seems dull and gray these days. People seem boring, everything normal seems boring. I admitted it to myself that Sherlock has probably rubbed off me. I was so used to the adrenalin and the cases, but now their was nothing to do with my life. I get up, go to work, come home, drink tea, and then go to sleep. My blog hasn't been updated in so long because whenever I sat down and tried to write I ended up crying or hyperventilating.

I haven't talked to anyone in Scotland Yard, I just couldn't face them after Sherlocks... suicide. I knew that if I did see them I would most likely end up running away. It was the opposite with the flat. I couldn't remove anything. I didn't put any of his belongings in boxes and I left everything the way it was before the fall. Well, except for Mrs. Hudson throwing away his experiments a month after his death. That day was really terrible. I yelled and sobbed for a while after that incident, and Mrs. Hudson made me some tea and just sat with me, not trying to comfort me, but letting me know that she is there if I ever needed her. I appreciated the effort she made to attempt to make me feel better.

I woke up the next morning even more depressed than ever. The empty kitchen mocked me, and it finally hit me that I would never see those crazy experiments there on that table ever again. And that Sherlock's presence was starting to fade away from the flat. It didn't smell like him anymore, and a light coating of dust was starting to settle on his chair, books and violin. I considered moving out, but I knew I could never go through with it.

Mycroft texted me that day. I never bothered to answer him, though. The thought of seeing Sherlock's brother made me angry. He could've somehow found a way to keep Sherlock from doing what he did. He had men everywhere. He was part of the British government for gods sake! That was the reason I refused any interaction with that man.

When I awoke this morning I awoke screaming. It was always the same nightmare, nothing changed. My nightmare was basically the day Sherlock fell. It plays over and over like a broken record and I wake up yelling his name, sweat glistening on my skin and the blankets twisted around my legs. I am aware that I should go back to my therapist, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to talk about any of this. She would make me say things and think about things I didn't want to think about. Because that is what Ella did, and I was not ready for that, even though he's been gone for 5 months already.

I did my boring morning routine. I boiled some water and then realized that I couldn't make tea because I was out of milk. I felt a sad pang make way in my hollow chest. Sherlock used to be in charge of buying the milk...

I left the freshly boiled water in the kettle and put on my coat and grabbed my gun and cane. My gun always followed me wherever I went. It made me feel safe. And about the cane, my psychosomatic limp came back a week after the fall, and I hate it. It's such a nuisance. I will it to go away sometimes, but it never does. In fact, some days I feel like it just gets more painful. My shoulder started to act up again, too. Mostly on days where I was so down in the dumps that I would contemplate unhealthy things- like taking some drugs, jumping off the nearest bridge or drinking myself into an oblivion. But, drinking was my sisters expertise, not mine. And the doctor part of me usually made me trap those thoughts into the back of my mind.

I left the flat a few minutes later and I took a cab to the nearest grocery store. I would've walked, but the limp made it almost impossible to walk long distances. It only took me a few minutes to become suspicious of the taxi driver. He wasn't taking the right route. No, he was way off. The grocery store I told him to take me to was the other way around. We were on some back road on the other side of town. Due to the early 6 am time, no one was on this road and it was very creepy.

"Excuse me, can you stop the taxi?" I asked as politely as I could.

To my relief, he did stop the taxi, and I got out as quickly as possible. As I limped away, I realized 2 things. 1) I had no clue as to where I was. And 2) I was being pursued by the taxi driver. I took a deep breath as the familiar adrenalin coursed through my bloodstream. The driver was running towards me, and I took off sprinting. I didn't know why this man was running after me, and I didn't know who he was or what he wanted. But I did know for sure that he looked quite mean, and I wasn't about to be murdered by a cab driver. As I was sprinting down the street I took notice that my limp had gone, and I also knew where I was now. I was a few blocks away from Scotland Yards HQ.

I was so deep in thought that when I turned the corner, I didn't see the the thick tree branch until I tripped on it. I cursed as I sprawled onto the road. I hastily picked myself up and tore down the street once again, my cane somehow still clutched in my hand. Footsteps beat down harshly on the ground trailing after me from about 2 feet away. I thought up a plan, a habit I picked up from being a soldier. I was going to use my cane as a weapon. I judged the timing perfectly, and then unexpectedly spun around and swung the cane straight on to the cabbies head. I gave it enough strength to just knock the guy out. He hit the floor with a dull thud, unconscious.

I looked down at the man and took gasping breaths. I wiped some sweat off my forehead as I bent down to examine the driver. I was a bit winded from months of no exercise. I calmed my breathing down somewhat and looked more closely at the man. He had on a white business shirt on, and black slacks. His name tag informed me that his name was David. His shoes were like new and his hair was gelled back in a formal way. My eyes were drawn to the blue tooth device in his ear. This guy was definitely working for someone. His clothes were way too formal to be a taxi driver. His hair looked too business, and I have never in my life met a taxi driver who wore a blue tooth. I scanned his pockets and found a phone, but it was broken, obviously from when he fell to the ground. And then it dawned on me. This guy-David- dressed a lot like someone who'd work for Mycroft. And to think about it, that blue tooth looks a lot like ones I've seen on some of Mycrofts employees.

Anger seethed through me, and suddenly I was picking up David and swung him over my good shoulder. He wasn't as heavy as I thought he would be. I was just relieved nobody was up to see the exchange that happened between me and the driver. That would have ended badly, probably with the involvement of the police, and some jail time. I bet I looked crazy walking down the street with a zonked out man thrown over my shoulder. And not to mention he was sporting some blood on his forehead.

I was in front of Scotland Yard before I knew it. I took a deep, painful breath and readied myself to go in. I needed to drop David off over here. I couldn't bring him into a taxi back home, because I'm sure that I would receive some odd looks from some very alarmed people. I entered through the door, and walked with a stony face down the hallway, and when I entered the main room, everyone their threw a startled glance towards me, and then they focused on the unconscious person.

'Hey, John, long time no see." Donovan greeted. I nodded to Anderson, Lestrade, and Donovan with my soldiers face on. I felt my heart starting to bleed and break open. My chest felt like it was on fire. My throat was too tight. Everything here reminded me of Sherlock, that bastard...

I took a very shaky breath. "Nice to see you too, Donovan." I let the man slide down to the floor, alleviating the weight from my shoulder. I cleared my throat, sensing the awkward atmosphere. And then I felt the previous anger creep up.

"Can I borrow someones phone? I didn't bring mine. Thanks" I told Donovan as she placed her phone in my hand.

I punched in Mycrofts number (I don't even know why I had it memorized in the first place) and held it up to my ear. It rang 2 times until he picked up.

"Ahh, Donovan-" I cut him off in the coldest voice I could make. "I swear to god, Mycroft, if you send another guy after me, I will come over there and shoot you." I looked towards the window to avoid looking at everyone else in the room.

"Oh, hello, John. This is a surprise." He didn't sound surprised at all. I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

"No, it's not. Look, I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but don't send some creepy employee to- I don't even know why you would send- YOU BASTARD! Stop using me as your play thing! I'm not in the mood. Stop texting me, stop bugging the flat, and stop it with the annoyances, period. What are you getting out of this anyway?! I really have lost respect for you after your little 'lets tell Moriarty everything!'. GOODBYE, and good day! Never mind, I hope your day sucks!" And I ended the call. My breath was coming fast and I felt so accomplished to finally stand up to him and express my displeasure to him.

I wet my lips and turned around to give the phone back to Donovan. She was looking at me like I was crazy, and then she began laughing, along with Anderson and Lestrade.

"Jeez, that was one amazing rant, didn't even allow him to talk!" Lestrade exclaimed. I shrugged and gave a small half smile.

"He wasn't allowing me to have any privacy!" I shuffled my feet. "Can you take care of this guy, please. I really don't know what to do with him."

Anderson nodded and pat my shoulder, I flinched away. If he noticed the small act, he didn't pay attention to it. "Thanks so much. Um, I'll go now." I gestured to the hallway and everyone let me go. I was grateful that no one asked me how I was doing, because I wouldn't have been able to keep on my brave face.

I walked to the flat, because right now my leg wasn't bothering me, and for that I was thankful. And I was actually sort of scared to jump into another cab right now. But halfway to 221B, I realized that this walk wasn't such a good idea. In my experience, walking always seemed to make me think more. And thinking was never pleasurable, at least not when Sherlock was the topic of thoughts. They usually made me so depressed, even more so than I normally was.

As I walked along the London traffic, I realized that almost everyone had started healing from his death. I was the only one who was still raw and angry about Sherlock dying. Everyone at Scotland Yard looked like they were fairly normal again. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk as a twinge of pain shot down my leg. Crap, I don't even have my cane anymore. I mentally took a note in my mind to buy another one later.

Another thought was pulled up from the back of my mind. A scary and terrifyingly insightful one. It told me that I thoroughly enjoyed that whole thing with the cab driver. The adrenalin made me feel euphoric and somewhat happy. It felt like old times between me and Sherlock. I loved the whole chase, and I took some thrill in knocking that driver unconscious. The only thing that upset me was going into Scotland Yard. Looking at those familiar people sent a painful pang through my heart, obviously because of Sherlock. And the Sherlock thoughts were back again to haunt me.

By the time I reached the flat, I was trying not to jump in to traffic. I forcefully pushed open the door and ran up the stairs. How dare Sherlock leave me, how dare he leave me to live a life without him! That pig-headed arse! I laughed in despair when I entered the flat, tears rolling down my cheeks. Look at me! I survived the war, but I can barely live through the death of my best friend. I've seen so many people die, and yet this one death takes me apart at the seams. It makes my heart stop, makes me cry, it makes me struggle to breathe and makes me so sad that I would go so low as to join Sherlock! Being without Sherlock made me feel like I was nothing without him. He brought me back to life after I returned from Afghanistan.

I plopped down on the chair and then I remembered that I needed milk to make some tea. I groaned and just started heavily sobbing. And during my break down I grasped my laptop and opened up my blog. I wrote down 5 words.

'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.'

TBC...

While I was writing John, I almost cried along with him :( Poor John. I literally just wrote this with no idea where I was going or anything. This is just from my thoughts, so I don't know how long this will be! Leaving reviews will make me write faster :) When I know people like my story, I work harder to make it better! Thanks for reading :D

Listening to Three Days Grace helped me make this whole story...