Sherlock stood awkwardly at the front of the room. Two things he hated, all in one- being acknowledged, and other people. Turns out the man they had killed, the man Sherlock had nearly lost his life tracing, was planning on hijacking a plane filled with American and British consulates, and would have pulled it off if Sherlock and John hadn't stopped him. So here he was, in a room filled with reporters and people and bloody Lestrade trying to actually acknowledge Sherlock for something, for once.
Sherlock could see John standing up the back of the room, shifting from foot to foot, looking more than a little bit awkward. Sherlock beckoned him over, trying to avoid meeting anyone's gaze.
"John, this is bloody stupid. Can we just go now?" He looked across at Lestrade, who was nervously talking to a group of reporters and pulling on his tie. Everyone was being so secretive, and Sherlock hated it. They were hardly even talking to him, and when they did, it was always measured, careful, as if they were scared to say what was really on their minds.
"Sherlock, to these people, you're a hero! Give them a chance."
"Pfft, John. Everyone knows I wasn't the hero this time, y-"
Sherlock was interrupted by Lestrade grabbing his collar and pulling him out the front.
"Everybody, this is Sherlock Holmes, hero."
Camera flashes clicked and people yelled. Sherlock looked at his feet. God, he hated people. Stupid, boring things. Twice in a minute he had been called a hero, and it made him uncomfortable.
Lestrade kept talking, and with every word he said Sherlock could feel his own anger rising. No, this was all wrong. Sherlock Holmes was not a bloody hero. No. Bad. Wrong.
Sherlock stepped up to Lestrade, delicately tapping him on the shoulder.
"I'm perfectly capable of taking it from here." Lestrade gave him a worried look but stepped back from the microphone, letting Sherlock take front and centre.
He coughed politely and looked over at John, who gave him a quick smile of encouragement.
"Well. You, you're all calling me a hero, like it's some form of compliment. But, really, I wasn't the hero in this case. The hero was Doctor John Watson, my friend."
Sherlock savoured the word friend, knowing he rarely had chance to say it. The room was dead silent, people shifting awkwardly and looking at the ground.
"Without John, I'd be dead. The man would have killed me. Apparently I shouldn't have survived anyway." Sherlock took a deep breath and gestured to John. "So, if anyone's your hero, it should be John Watson."
Dead silence.
One brave reporter near the front plucked up courage to yell out a question.
"Mr Holmes! How are you coping now John's dead?"
The silence was suddenly broken by questions and camera flashes and noise, but Sherlock was oblivious to it all. No. No. This. No. They had to be lying. Had to.
He wildly scanned the room, looking for John, he'd seen him just a minute ago, he had to be there, this was John, John didn't just, well, up and die! Sherlock needed John, John wouldn't leave him, he wouldn't, would he?
The noise was becoming unbearable, and Sherlock suddenly realised half of it was himself. He was screaming, and he couldn't stop, he was being tortured, burnt, murdered slowly, destroyed, and he couldn't do anything. As Lestrade put a calming arm around Sherlock's back and hurried him out of the room, Sherlock was still screaming, screaming noiselessly, painfully, he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak.
John was gone.
Sherlock Holmes sat on the couch in 221B Baker St. An unopened newspaper lay in front of him, the headline reading 'Detective Driven Insane by Loss of Comrade.' The article went on to describe how Sherlock Holmes had been so badly affected by the death of John Watson that he had invented an imaginary friend, of sorts, to deal with the grief. The accompanying picture showed a broken Sherlock screaming in pain at the conference.
Lestrade sat opposite him, clearly uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock."
No response.
"John was a good man."
A single tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek.
"I didn't realise you cared so deeply for him."
Sherlock sighed. "Neither did I, Lestrade, neither did I.