I don't understand why it keeps saying this chapter has been deleted from the fic like ten minutes after I post it, so if you keep seeing it come and go, it's because I'm having a battle with this stupid website to try and get it to stay. It's maddening.
"This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John."
John ran as fast as his feet would carry him once he broke free from the arms of the bystanders, rushing into the hospital following the gurney carrying Sherlock. He was slowed down by patients in wheelchairs, on gurneys being moved about, John's eyes never leaving the sight of his best friend until those pushing him entered the lift, his pleas for them to wait up going unnoticed as he watched the doors close, Sherlock finally leaving his sight.
He knew waiting on another lift would take too long, his feet carrying him to the stairs, tears stinging at his eyes as he heard his heartbeat in his ears, a tightening developing in his chest as he stepped off the last step and into the long corridor just in time to see the doors to the mortuary close.
He could see through the window, could see the lifeless arm hanging over the edge of the gurney, the crimson life hitting the floor as the body was transferred to a metal table. He could feel his breath catching as he got closer to the door, his world slowing down around him, his eyes never leaving Sherlock until Molly was suddenly in front of him, hand on his chest.
"You can't go in there."
"Mol-"
"I've got him now. I'll take care of him." Her voice was firm but sad, tears staining her face, the slightest of shake present in her hand that currently rested against John's chest. He wanted to push her out of the way, wanted to ask how she could be so calm when the man they both cared so much about was gone, but he couldn't find the words, couldn't find the energy as she backed through the doors, turning only when she was sure that John wasn't going to follow.
He stayed there for hours, in the hallway, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs as he sat on the floor. The thought of leaving Sherlock, alone on a cold slab in the basement of the hospital caused waves of pain to run through him, tears stinging at his eyes.
His emotions were crashing through him like tidal waves, anger and sadness playing a tug of war with his heart. He wanted to yell at Sherlock, wanted to hate him for walking into his life and turning it upside down, just to turn around and leave the shattered pieces all over the ground for John to pick up again, the jagged edges causing pain and tears.
He wanted to hate him, but even more so he wanted to hold him, lying in his bed, their bodies wrapped around each other in a futile attempt to make these nightmares go away. The thought of suddenly having to sleep at night alone made John feel short of breath, realizing that not only would the nightmares come back without Sherlock there to chase them away, but they would hit him full force with images of Sherlock's fall mingling in, making his nights that much harder to survive.
John felt like the walls were starting to close in on him, his legs shaky as he pulled himself up the wall, his eyes on the doors to the mortuary. Tears were streaming down his face but he didn't realize it, his breath coming out in small gasps. He suddenly had the urge to hold Sherlock, he didn't care if he was bloody and broken, his skin cold, his eyes lifeless. Broken Sherlock was better than no Sherlock.
As John reached the mortuary door he felt a hand on his shoulder, and for the tiniest of moments he thought he would turn around to find Sherlock standing behind him, a grin on his face. He was disappointed instead to find Lestrade, his face darkened with sadness, eyes fighting back tears of his own.
"Molly called, she's worried about you, said you refused to leave." The tone is just as sad as the look in his eyes, sounding defeated, lost. He briefly glanced past John to the doors of the mortuary, but quickly made himself look away, distracting himself with the man in front of him.
"He's in there Greg. He's lying in there alone, cold, hurt-"
"And dead, John. " He feels horrible about being blatantly honest, but he has been doing this long enough to know that it's what some people need to separate the reality of the situation from whatever notion they have in their head of what's happening.
"There's nothing more you can do for him, John. Molly is with him, Molly will take care-"
"She can't make the nightmares go away." John cuts in angrily, his voice choked and broken, fighting back tears. Lestrade looks confused by the statement but doesn't push it, John beginning to pace the hallway as he puts his hands in his hair, trying to grab some control of himself, feeling everything beginning to crumble at the edges.
"How could you, of all people, go along with Anderson and Donovan? How could you ever believe that Sherlock is anything other than who he says he is? He trusted you. He trusted you, and now, now he's-" John couldn't get the last word out, his voice ebbing away to a whisper. He refused to believe Sherlock's confession, refused to go along with the fabrication that he created Moriarty, and the guilt Lestrade was feeling when he walked in increased exponentially at the sight of John breaking down in front of him.
"John-"
"No. You don't get to sit back and watch them destroy Sherlock's reputation, tear him down, parade him into the public with his hands cuffed, and then show up here. You could have defended him, you could have stopped this from happening. He considered you a friend, he trusted you."
John's words started off loud, angry, but tapered off until they were just above a whisper and broken, the tears flowing heavier.
"I didn't expect for this to happen." The words were sincere, honest, but they fell on deaf ears, John's hands falling to his sides as he stopped pacing just in front of the mortuary doors, the DI's reflection appearing in the small windows encased in the stainless steel.
"Just leave." John left no room for argument as he pushed through the doors of the mortuary, leaving Lestrade behind as he entered the cold quiet intake room. Numbness started to set into his mind as he pushed through another door that led him to Molly's location, red rimmed eyes looking up at John over the white sheet clad body laid out on the steel table, hands the only exposed portion of the body that John could see.
"You're not supposed to be in here." Her voice was reminiscent of a small, sad child, her eyes reflecting as much as she forced the tears to disappear with failed results.
John couldn't focus on anything but the body, on the long slender fingers that played the violin like it was a part of his being, the hands that would find themselves steepled in concentration when they were in the depths of a case. He found his own hand shaking as he reached out, his body going cold at the lifelessness he encountered when his fingertips brushed over Sherlock's hand, those hands that would wrap around him at night and make his nightmares disappear.
He didn't register Molly walking around the table, didn't notice her standing next to him until her hand was on his wrist, gentle but firm. She pulled him into a hug, but his arms remained lifeless by his sides, eyes never leaving the hands until she pulled back, gripping his shoulders.
"John, you have to let him go."
When he was finally able to pull his gaze from Sherlock's hand and focus on Molly in front of him, he found that her eyes held almost as much pain as his own. It was in that moment he realized that he wasn't the only one Sherlock left behind, his mind finally pulling itself out of the well of self-pity, his tunnel vision disappearing only to be replaced with further despair at the thought of Sherlock leaving a hole behind in everyone's lives.
With that thought John could almost feel himself crumble, realizing that he needed to get to Mrs. Hudson before anyone else could, break the news to her, be the one to hold her when she found out there would no longer be violin music filtering down from their flat, no more science experiments to clean up. It's not a task he was looking forward to, primarily because it meant leaving Sherlock, but he reminded himself that he's a soldier, a captain, and he needed to stand straight with his head held high.
"Take care of him Molly." It's said with a sudden change in his voice, from broken to firm, a captain giving his soldier a command. He allowed his new façade to falter only long enough to brush his fingers over Sherlock's hand again before giving a stiff nod in his direction, his posture suddenly straight as he wordlessly exited the mortuary.
Next chapter up: The First Night Alone