"Let me see him," John begged Molly. He didn't remember leaving his spot from the sidewalk, didn't remember when he stopped staring at the puddle of blood on the dirty pavement, didn't remember stepping foot inside the hospital. All he remembers is trying to go through the mortuary doors, suddenly desperate, determined to see Sherlock, to try to make sense of this. The moment he reached the doors, Molly had stepped out, blocking John's access inside. "Just let me see him. Please."
Before Molly could respond with more than a grimace and a sad look, John heard footsteps behind him.
"You want to see for yourself that he is dead," Mycroft's even voice announced. "You are in denial of his death. You can't believe it is real until you see the body for yourself."
John turned to glare at Mycroft. He was not in the mood for assessments, wasn't in the mood to be read, analyzed, picked apart as if he were a case, a criminal. He rubbed a hand over his face and took in Mycroft's appearance. He looked too stoic. He was acting too stoic.
Is that all it is? John wondered to himself. Is it an act, or is he truly that cold?
He tried to read Mycroft. Tried, but failed. There was no denying the fact that, while not at all unintelligent, he was not nearly as apt at reading people as Sherlock had been. With disgust and horror, John pushed away the fact that he had just thought of Sherlock in the past tense.
Mycroft continued. "I assure you, he's dead. All seeing the body will do is upset you further." So cold, controlled, composed. His own brother. How could he keep it together like that?
John brushed it off, tried to focus on the subject. He couldn't get distracted, couldn't allow himself to stray away from the truly important task- to try to see him. He supposed Mycroft was partially right- He did feel almost as though Sherlock could still be alive.
He blinked at Mycroft, shook his head. "No, no, no. He can't be dead. He just can't be."
Molly finally injected herself into the tense conversation. "John, they wouldn't send his body down to me if-"
"Stop!" He found himself crying out. "Both of you, stop calling him that. He is not a body. It is not a body- it is him. It is Sherlock."
"I'm sorry, John," Molly tried to calm him down with soft words, but she kept stumbling over her tongue. "I understand, he's not just a body. I know. But he's gone, John. They wouldn't have brought him to me if it was still… him. Trust me."
Anger, denial, fury bubbled up. Indignation. "Oh, what do you know?" He spat at her.
Molly's eyes widened with shock. Her timid personality kept her from lashing out at him. That, and the fact that she knew he didn't mean it. He was just in shock and trying to hold in his grief. Molly tried to reach out to him, but he recoiled.
"No. I won't believe it until I see it." With that declaration, he pushed past Molly and darted straight into the freezing room. He stopped dead in his tracks, however, at the sight of Sherlock lying on the medical examiner's table. A cold slab of metal. "Oh, God," he groaned. With a shuddering breath, he walked forward until he was standing next to the table. John's knees very nearly gave out on him at not only the sight, but the details of everything he was taking in.
Sherlock's skin, normally pale as it was, was entirely devoid of any color other than a sickening white-grey color. He could hear them behind him, Mycroft telling Molly to just leave him to it, that it was his choice to subject himself if he truly wanted to. John shut them out of his mind as he took in the scrapes and bruises on Sherlock's face, the near-dried blood matted in his unruly curls.
So much blood, he recalled.
"Believe me now? Satisfied?" Mycroft asked from the doors.
"No," John shook his head in denial. He tried desperately to swallow the sudden lump lodged in his throat. "M-aybe… this is someone else's body. Someone who looks like him. Have… have you taken his blood yet?" He looked to Molly, his look so frantic that she thought he almost looked crazed. She nodded her head and his heart sank.
Mycroft cleared his throat as John turned back to Sherlock. "Why is it you ignore the facts that are presented to you?"
"Why don't you?" John yelled. "It's Sherlock, Mycroft. That's why I can't believe this. Because it's him, and I know him, and I know he would never have given up like this. The very idea of giving up was foreign to him. He would never give up, would never lie about being a fraud and then bloody kill hims- Oh, God," He choked, unable to get the rest of his sentence out.
"I can't accept the facts beca-" He blinked back the tears beginning to sting his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he pointed at Sherlock's body, brandished his hand at him. "Because this isn't okay, and I won't allow him to be dead. I won't allow it."
For just a moment, he thought he saw a look of sadness on Mycroft's face. "It doesn't do you any service to lie to yourself, or for me to lie to you. You must come to terms."
John shook his head adamantly. "Not when I don't believe this. If anyone could fake this, if anyone could pull this off, it's him."
"John." Mycroft's expression, his voice, they were both full of pity and exasperation with just a hint of admonishment.
He ignored Mycroft's words, turned to Sherlock's body, touched his cheek for a moment. His skin was so cold. With a wordless yell, he kicked at a nearby stand, sending a tray full of sterilized utensils flying and clattering to the floor. Heart in a vice, he slammed both fists down onto the metal of the gurney, very nearly hitting his body.
"You… you bastard!" He was suddenly so angry at him. Rage seared through his veins, made his heart pound, his head pound. He stared at the face of the most important person in his life, his world, and felt more emotions in those few moments than he had in the years before meeting him. Before meeting Sherlock.
He was angry, hurt, betrayed, heartbroken, and in denial.
"You stupid, selfish git," He whispered. "Why? Why this? What did you think you could possibly prove, possibly solve by doing this?"
Of course there was no answer. There would never be an answer.
With clenched teeth, clenched fists, he stormed out of the bleak room, pushing past Molly and Mycroft, ignoring Mycroft's poker face and Molly's distraught one.
"Hope your brother is pleased," He muttered caustically as he passed them.
Nothing else was said as he stormed down the hall, trying so hard to regain the soldier's composure that had been second nature until Sherlock came spiraling into his life.