Oh...hey there...I'm going to pretend that it hasn't been a really long time since I've updated this...
So I should really be studying for a major test right now...but screw that. I decided to marathon Soul Eater (20 episodes down in about two days) and write instead. It's not like I have a chance of passing anyway :(
Progress was slow. Painfully slow, in fact. Almost nonexistent.
For weeks, months, the house felt empty. No amount of cookies baked by Mrs. Hudson or giggles coaxed out of Hamish could change the fact that Baker Street no longer felt like home. It had never really been his anyway.
Everything in the flat had been Sherlock's, so everything about the flat reminded him of his lost love, every corner of every room held some little memory. He hadn't had much of his own, coming from Afghanistan. Just a handful of boxes, mostly clothes and a few stacks of medical journals and a single photo album from his childhood.
Everything down to the tea in the cupboards was Sherlock's. It had always been the man's favorite, one of the only things that could calm him down when he was stressed. John had to keep buying it, and he still left it sitting out as if waiting for someone who was never coming back. John had made tea for a man who wasn't there more than once. A surprising amount of times, actually.
And the books on the shelves...they still somehow belonged to Sherlock, their thin pages yellowed and spines cracked with the passage of time. Even their smell, that old, musty, unplaceable smell reminded him of Sherlock. He'd spent so much time with those books, loved them so much. He'd owned many of them since childhood, most of the pilfered over the years from the Holmes' Manor library or acquired from secondhand shops. Some had even migrated to Hamish's room, all of Sherlock's favorite childhood tales. The Hobbit. Peter Pan. Treasure Island. Things Mycroft had once read to him and things he'd once read to his son, books the duo would never finish.
His shirts were still in the wardrobe, left untouched and still draped neatly on their hangers. Some of them still smelled like the dark haired man. Like old books and sulfur and chemicals and antiseptic and cigarette smoke. John slept with one of the shirts in his pillowcase, though he would never admit it. It was comforting, enough to mildly quell the terrible feeling of waking up alone in a cold bed again and again and again without fail. John feared the day he would forget the smell. The shirts wouldn't last forever. Hell, they wouldn't last much longer.
Sherlock would never be gone from the home, not really.
It was a scary prospect.
It had gotten so bad that sometimes John still expected to hear faint violin music drifting from the open doors when he walked through the entryway after a long day of work. Sometimes he expected his Sherlock to rush down the creaky stairs announcing they had a case, maniacal grin on his face.
It was like he could almost see Sherlock there whenever he rounded a corner. Lanky body spread out of the sofa or impossibly folded up in his dusty armchair.
But Sherlock was never there. And he never would be. Ever.
John was just waiting for the day when it would stop hurting, when he could stop lying to himself.
He was waiting for the day when he would walk in the door without secretly hoping Sherlock would be there.
He was waiting for the day he would stop pouring more tea than he needed.
He was waiting for the day when things would be okay again.
Because it felt like everyone was moving on. They were starting to be alright again. The world was still turning even though John's had stopped the moment Sherlock fell.
Harry was gone already. She'd left for her own home about a month ago (far sooner than she'd expected), unable to take anymore time off work after her boss had been so understanding. But she left confident in the fact that her brother had an incredible support network of people.
Mrs. Hudson carried on with her baking and cooking and cleaning. She still chattered on with Mrs. Turner and watched daytime telly and fed the stray neighborhood cats. She was still the same even though she'd lost her pseudo son. She spoiled Hamish rotten instead, always sneaking him treats when John wasn't looking.
Lestrade was getting better too, gradually. Sherlock had been a friend to him, more than that actually. Maybe even a son. He'd taken the loss hard. But he was getting better, learning to work without the genius who'd been such a permanent fixture. John could still see the strain when the gray haired man visited every once and a while, but he smiled whenever he saw Hamish. He still came over to check up on things and see the little boy, who'd become a bit attached to the DI.
Even Mycroft was starting to feel alright again. A few weeks after the funeral, something in him seemed to have clicked. He wasn't so visibly distressed and distant, the depression seemed to just melt away for no reason. And it's not like he was hiding it behind a cold mask. No, he spent more time at 221B than he ever had before, and most of it was spent with Hamish. John couldn't remember ever seeing the ice man smile so much.
But he supposed their connection was a good thing. John was by no means stupid, but Hamish definitely needed a genius in his life. The boy was far too advanced to go unstimulated, and John had never really excelled at that. But Mycroft stepped in...happy to fill Sherlock's old shoes and help whenever he had the free time. It was something John was sure he would be grateful for once Hamish started school and the inevitable bullying set in. Hopefully Mycroft would know how to handle that.
It all boiled down to Hamish, really. The only reason why anyone seemed okay with the whole situation.
He wasn't the same boy he'd been before, not by a long shot. He still had so many off days when he wanted to do little more than sleep. He still missed his Papa every single day and he was still closed off and quiet most of the time, only managing to smile every so often, usually when Mycroft or Lestrade visited. But he was getting better.
Oh, John was so sick of that phrase.
It was all about "getting better".
What did that even mean?
How in God's name was he supposed to be okay with this?
How could he accept that Sherlock was gone?
Really, this was just me trying to get back into the groove of writing third person. So tell me if you think it went well, and I'll try to update this more often :)
Also, check out my other Sherlock stuff in the meantime if you haven't already.