Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.
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Nothing Quite So Spectacular
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Part 1
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The worst thing about Sherlock being gone is that John can't get rid of him. He is holding on to his deceased friend too tightly because letting go would feel like treason. He can't abandon Sherlock, his memory, his very essence, therefore the detective stays with him. Sometimes it's making John's skin crawl, but it's what he wants, apparently; his subconscious is holding him hostage.
While Sherlock was alive, there were countless times on which John was more than a little annoyed by him, there even were the odd occasions on which he hated him. Recalling those moments in detail seems infeasable now, impossible to the extreme: it shames John, makes him think he must have been wrong back then. He knows he wasn't, of course, since Sherlock had the tendency to drive anyone up the wall, and yet: he wants those moments back just as he wants all the others, craves to change what has happened, undo whatever caused any negativity. It's common to euphemize the past, especially when it concerns the dead, he is aware of that.
You're being romantic, Sherlock's ghost tells him, don't do that. I was never one to embellish things when they didn't deserve it.
"How can I not," John asks, and his voice seems contorted in the empty room, "when I was happiest while I was with you, even when you were being an ignorant bastard?"
The ghost is contemplating that, lounging in his armchair. John can't bear to look at it, but he listens to its voice: You've got a point there, of course, it says, sounding pensive. Your life must have been so dull before I came along.
"I fought in a war, I wouldn't call that dull!" John is actually getting angry; Sherlock has a habit of riling him up when he's bored, just for some entertainment.
Before the ghost can answer, there's a hesitant knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson peeks in. "John, dear," she says almost timidly, "I thought I was hearing voices..." Her own fades a little when she realizes John is alone and the TV isn't on either.
"I was talking to myself," John says; out of the corner of his eye he sees the ghost smirking.
"Oh," the old lady doesn't seem convinced, but then, nothing is certain nowadays. "All right... Would you like some tea, love?"
"No, thank you." John can't have tea now, in this usually cozy afternoon hour; he can't have normality. He can't entertain the notion that everything is as it should be, when it's actually the opposite: Sherlock's gone and John is haunted by his ghost out of his own volition.
When he puts in some real effort, the ghost disappears. It's a relief each time, even though John still hears its voice; Sherlock has a lot of things to say. Yet the apparition itself is a nuisance; it's not like Sherlock at all when John looks at it closely, the nuances aren't right. He's afraid he will forget how the real Sherlock looked like if he stares at his impostor for too long; already, he's having trouble to recall him when he isn't concentrated, because he's too exhausted and overwrought and worn. He feels as insubstantial as the ghost sometimes.
When he sleeps, and it's not necessarily something he likes to do these days, the strangest ideas come to him; even in his dreams, he tries to fathom who Sherlock really was and why he ended his life like that. Inconceivably, his mind is straying to ships each time. A strange connection, since John has never been particular to them, but now he sails unknown seas each time he dozes off, and eventually he realizes that the ships are meant to represent something else: his and Sherlock's life, the course they had taken together. He always knows the names of these ships when he wakes, and they do change: Indefatigable. Intrepid. Nonpareil.
He ponders those names in his waking hours, at least when he's not distracted by anything else. They should have been more careful, he tells himself, shouldn't have blundered on as carelessly as before once Moriarty had entered the stage. What could he have done to prevent what happened?
Nothing, the ghost provides, you couldn't have stopped me. You know that as well as I do.
And yet John's thoughts reel back to Barts rather frequently, no matter how much he curses, no matter how hard he balls his fists.
It's futile, the ghosts says, why bother?
John hurtles his mug at it, which passes straight through its chest, but that doesn't make any difference, of course: the spectre doesn't even blink. The mug shatters as it hits the wall; nothing in this world is indefatigable, apparently not even Sherlock Holmes. He was after all exhausted enough by it all to end his life.
While John tries to blink the hot, unwelcome tears away which are suddenly clouding his vision, Mrs Hudson hurries into the room: "John, what-" The fact that she didn't hesitate to enter this time is a clear indicator of how she's on constant alert these days, how much she worries about John and seems to be afraid that he'll harm himself.
Not surprising, he thinks bitterly, since the other person she's had to worry about is gone. This notion doesn't help with the tears, but he doesn't endeavour to hide them as Mrs Hudson, who's by now realized what just happened, turns towards him with a dismayed expression. She has never seen anyone so broken-hearted. Gingerly, she squats down on the armrest of John's chair and puts her arm around his shoulders; it's not the first time, and from the looks of it, it won't be the last.
As they weep together in silence, the ghost watches with a doleful expression.
John doesn't even notice how time slips by. He does of course register changes in temperature and the length of daylight, but it's like he's watching it all from the outside; he doesn't partake. He can't relate to people enjoying the sun on warm summer days, he can't marvel at the autumnal colours when the leaves on the trees begin to change, and he can't under any circumstances find it in him to think of Christmas, or the New Year. The latter is worst; the last year still had Sherlock in it, if not for too long. The last year started with Sherlock being there, which was so much better than this new one, which is empty and bereft.
The ghost isn't an appropriate replacement. It does appear less frequent, however. John doesn't know how he's achieved that, but he is glad about it; he still doesn't want to let go of his friend, but it's ever so exhausting to argue with something which isn't really there. And it seems wrong because it makes him forget the real conversations they had; they didn't argue all the time, after all. Sherlock and he were actually able to talk to each other, something a lot of people didn't seem to believe at the time.
In fact, Sherlock was the only one who understand about the war, about Harry, about John. Sometimes the doctor got up in the night for one reason or another, and went downstairs to get something to drink. Sherlock often was still up then, and they often ended up having a cup of tea, sometimes talking, sometimes not.
I should have made my days into nights, just like he did, John thinks bitterly; he still tends to try and come up with ways he could have spent more time with Sherlock than he already did. It is ridiculous, but that's another thing he can't stop so easily.
On the anniversary of Sherlock's death, John leaves Baker Street and goes to buy some flowers. He has already raised his hand to flag down a cab when he realizes he can't do it. He won't find Sherlock there today, only a black headstone. He puts the flowers on the kitchen table; they are later rescued by Mrs Hudson.
"I need to move out," he tells her that evening. She grips her cardigan just about where her heart is, but she doesn't protest. It's not entirely unexpected, she has in fact wondered how he managed to stay for so long. 221B is unaltered, he didn't put any of Sherlock's things away, and he carries their weight on his shoulders. These days, he resembles an old man: hunched in on himself, with more flecks of grey in his hair than there were a year ago.
Moving is difficult and horrible. He feels like he is cutting off all which was dear to him, but he needs to do it if he wants to keep breathing, if he wants to live.
The thing he dreaded most is that the ghost might follow him to his new lodgings; it doesn't.
Spectres are tied to a certain place, he thinks, stationary. Thank God.
He isn't yet prepared to admit to himself that maybe this step has been the first one towards healing, because it still has the ring of abandoning his friend to it. It's enough that he's abandoning Baker Street.
John still doesn't care much about what is going on around him, but he needs to find a job. By unspoken agreement, Mycroft Holmes had taken it on himself to pay for the rent and bi-weekly grocery deliveries. Mrs Hudson has somehow been in on it, of course, and John only now realizes that he'd have starved and become homeless if it hadn't been for them.
Well, that's another thing which is behind him now. He pulls himself together enough to write and send off a few applications, and within two weeks, he's got a few interviews, resulting in a job at a day clinic.
It still feels strange when he talks to people, and he can't bring himself to make more small talk than absolutely necessary, but he's getting into a routine which is doing him good. He even remembers to buy food and toilet paper, to wash his clothes, to charge his phone. Not that he needs it much; it's mainly Harry who calls him, and sometimes he gets the occasional text from Lestrade, asking how he's doing.
He never quite knows what to answer: I'm finally rid of the ghost, but I keep sailing in my dreams. I can't bear to go back to Baker Street to visit Mrs Hudson. I've managed to read a book, the first one in ages, and I had nearly finished it when there was one sentence that set me off ("Only lies have details"). I still don't know how it ends.
So he texts back some commonplaces which he doesn't even remember afterwards.
He begins to look at the calendar again, if only for work-related purposes; on some days, he feels the sun on his face on his way to or from work, thawing him on the surface.
It's after about three months after he's taken on his new job that he realizes he's stopped talking to Sherlock altogether on most days; the detective is no longer with him all the time. For a moment, he feels his friend's loss afresh, it's just as raw and painful as on the first day. But he shakes himself out of it, he has to. He can't go on like this, he has become a shell.
It doesn't mean he's stopped missing the man.
It doesn't mean he's abandoned his memories.
Life does become a little easier with time. John's colleagues, who've been wondering about him for a while, begin to warm to him, invite him along if they go to the pub. It's an effort for him, but he manages, and it's also doing him good. He's never been someone who isolated himself, and only now that he slowly stops doing it he realizes that he's actually missed having company.
He's deliberately vague about it when he ponders it, because the company he really craves won't come back, and he can't yet face that hard fact without feeling the now familiar despair which has been haunting him all these months. Not being so terribly alone anymore is a merit in itself; he still has to get through the nights on his own, after all.
He's still far from being all right, but now, with tentative hope, he thinks he might be getting there if nothing goes wrong.
He has of course no idea what is going to happen next.
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To Be Continued
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Thank you for reading. Please be so kind to leave some feedback.
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