A/N: I wasn't originally going to add to this fic, but here you go. I may keep going, just depends on feedback/demand. xx~
John stood in front of the kettle, Sherlock's coat draped over his shoulders. It was dirty and grimy and John knew that he should wash it, but he couldn't, that would remove the still faint traces of Sherlock's scent. John sucked in a ragged breath as he stuck his nose against the fabric, barely being able to smell any hints of Sherlock at all. John shook his head and inhaled deeper, feeling slightly lightheaded at the gust of oxygen, but there was still nothing. It just smelled dirty and sweaty and well-worn. John felt a few tears drip down his nose as he cast a wary glance at his watch, noting the date and time. Sherlock had died 5 months, 1 week, 3 days, and 2 hours ago, and it still hurt.
John sighed as the kettle started to whistle and he went and got two tea cups, just like every morning. He poured the coffee into the first mug slowly, adding two sugars before moving to pour the second mug, leaving it black. He set the two cups on the table across from each other and sat in the chair that the black coffee was placed at.
It was unhealthy and irrational and quite mental, but John didn't care; he couldn't stop himself. He had made Sherlock a cup of coffee ever since the first day, because after he'd gotten home from Greg's, he had went in and made coffee. He had made the usual, not even thinking about it, the motions mechanical.
John pulled the coat around himself as he stood in front of the kettle, carefully pouring out the coffee, his mind elsewhere. He pulled the sugar out from the cabinet and put in two before moving onto pour his own coffee, taking it black. He picked up the two cups and moved to set them on the table, mouth open to call that the coffee was ready, when it hit him. The cups passed through his hands, both landing with an ear-shattering crack, flinging scalding coffee all over the floor, the cabinets, John's legs, and the bottom of the coat. John shook his head quickly as several sobs began to tear through his body, and he staggered out of the kitchen, his shoes crumbling the bits of china under his feet with little pops. He fell to the ground, stumbling over a blasted box of papers, only causing him to sob harder. Sherlock had left so much behind, including John.
John shuddered at the memory and worked to push it away. He had moved on, well, he'd gotten a new flat far away from Baker Street, but his progress had stopped there. He didn't eat, didn't really go out, and never returned his friend's calls. The only time he saw anyone was when he went to visit Sherlock's grave, sleeping there more often than in his bed.
John wasn't always alone though, Greg visited sometimes. He would tell John about the Yarders and some of their current cases and make useless small talk about everything while John just sat, unfeeling, unblinking, unmoving, wrapped in Sherlock's coat. Then, Greg would leave, a look of something akin to guilt in his eyes as he walked out, leaving John alone.
John preferred to be alone though, that way he could cry and talk to Sherlock. John talked to Sherlock all the time, and he knew it was extremely unhealthy. But what had started with just rambling at Sherlock's grave soon morphed into one of John's main coping mechanisms. He would talk to Sherlock as if he were right there, sitting next to John, deducing or solving or being just plain brilliant.
John sighed deeply and looked at the coffee across the table, the steam having dissipated long ago. John moved to clear it away, but decided against it and left it sitting there, moving from lukewarm to cold as he went across his small flat into his bathroom to shower.
He showered slowly, all his movements slow and mechanical, almost as if his limbs were made of heavy concrete that he could barely lift.
"I'm tired, Sherlock," he whispered into the water of the shower, wincing as the too hot water thudded against his chest. "I mean really, really tired. Greg and I are going to visit your grave today, and I don't think I'll be able to handle it. I don't like going with people; they make it so awkward for me. I can't say all the things I need to, and I know Greg would have a cow if he knew I'd been sleeping out there. I know it's unhealthy, but I need it." John let out a sad sigh as he shut the scalding water out and wrapped the towel around his waist slowly. His movements were always so lethargic now, doing everything so slowly and halfheartedly. John sighed again as he got ready, pulling on his baggy, ill fitting clothes jadedly.
None of his clothes fit him anymore because after he stopped eating, of course he'd lost weight steadily. John should have gone out and gotten new clothes, but that would have involved leaving the flat for something other than visiting Sherlock or getting food, which he barely ever had to do anymore. That left visiting Sherlock as the only activity John ever saw. His whole life revolved around Sherlock, more so than it had when Sherlock had been alive, but when you give someone your heart, you don't just take it back if they die.
John Watson was a broken man, and his heart had shattered against the pavement just as Sherlock's body had.
Sherlock Holmes had John Watson's heart, and he always would.
ɸɸɸɸ
Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, sipping his coffee carefully, staring at Sherlock sitting across from him.
"You're looking well," Greg said, taking in Sherlock's freshly cut hair and shaved face. "Looking better than last time; you've been eating?" Sherlock just nodded and sipped at his coffee carefully, a far away glance in his eyes. "Sherlock?" Greg asked, studying Sherlock's face as it shifted into a rather large smile. He turned and faced Greg and sipped at his coffee, still smiling.
"Yes, John?" he asked, the smile still stretching across his face. Greg's mouth fell open and he felt a sick feeling in his stomach.
"No, um, Sherlock; it's me, Greg." Greg wiped at his eyes quickly, feeling tears prickling at the corners. "Um, John is b-back at his flat." Sherlock's eyes seemed to snap open and the smiled quickly fell from his face, replaced with his usual frown.
"Yes, um, hello Greg," Sherlock said smoothly, acting as if his mishap hadn't happened. "How was John when you went and visited him? You're taking him to the cemetery today, right?" Sherlock sat forward and stared at Greg intensely, and the full and powerful gaze of Sherlock Holmes resting directly on himself made Greg almost nervous.
"Um, he's, well, you know how he is, Sherlock. And yes, I am accompanying him today. He prefers to go alone, but Mycroft tells me he sits there and reads to the tombstone and sleeps there in that blasted, ratty coat of yours." Greg glared at Sherlock and shook his head. "He never takes the damned thing off, Sherlock. It just about swallows him whole. He doesn't eat or sleep and only leaves the flat to visit you or to get occasional things he needs. He's usually out for 5 to 10 minutes at a time, except for visiting you, of course. He sits there for hours and sobs and reads and sleeps. It's unhealthy, Sherlock." Greg paused his angry rant to look at Sherlock and was surprised to see tears streaming down the high cheekbones, streaking across his face in shiny lines.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding tiny and devastated. Greg just sat there and stared at Sherlock, watching the man as he put his head in his arms, resting it on the table, his thin shoulders quivering.
"Why what?" Greg wanted to place a hand on Sherlock's thin shoulders, wanted to comfort his friend, but there was something about the way his shoulders were shaking and the sounds of the small whimpers coming out of his mouth that told Greg that Sherlock would much rather be left alone.
"Why can't he just move on?" Sherlock almost shouted, attracting several stares from the other customers in the small shop. Greg blushed and looked down at his hands, picking at his nails for a few seconds.
"He loves you, Sherlock," Greg whispered, watching as Sherlock dropped his head back down with a groan.
"And that stupid coat, what about it?" Sherlock asked, his voice muffled by his arms.
"Sentiment," Greg said warily. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and wiped his eyes off with a napkin, blushing slightly. Greg shook his head and settled back into his chair, the image of John, the coat hanging off of his small shoulders, his face gaunt and drawn in filling his mind, and he suddenly felt very angry at Sherlock. Why did everyone but John get to know about his fake death? Why was John the only one left out and therefore the only one suffering? But then, Greg cast another glance at Sherlock, and saw the tortured expression painted there. So John wasn't the only one suffering, but Greg didn't see why anyone had to suffer? "Sherlock," Greg began, the image of poor, heartbroken John burning in his mind. "Why didn't you tell John? Why did everyone but him get to know? Don't you care about him at all? You're killing him, Sherlock, and you know it. I know you did it to save him, but he isn't really living Sherlock, not even close. He needs you Sherlock; don't you need him?" Sherlock stared at Greg for a while before shaking his head slowly.
"It's for the best," Sherlock muttered, and his face became an unreadable mask in that instance. Greg sighed as Sherlock pulled his phone out to thumb out a text. To whom, Greg had no idea.
"How?" Greg stared daggers at Sherlock, begging him to challenge.
"I'm not good for him; I need to go Greg, actually." Sherlock moved to stand, but Greg watched as his eyes travelled across the small shop, landing on something. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes were filled with anguish.
"Sherlock?" Greg asked, waving his hand in front of Sherlock's vacant eyes. "Sherlock?!" Greg asked again, shaking the man's shoulders roughly.
"What John?" Sherlock snapped. "I need to go, but I'll see you around." Sherlock got up slowly, the vacant look still in his eyes. "Remember John, as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable."
"Ok Sherlock," Greg said softly, wiping the tears off of his face.
He didn't know that two men could ever be quite so broken, but then again, you learn something new every day.
A/N: Please do review and tell me if you like this enough for me to continue! Cheers, mates xx~
