The hotel he managed to find wasn't much. It was empty. It had the generic hotel room smell, the generic scratchy sheets on the bed. Everything was plain and uniform and such a relief and a torment all at once. The only problem was that the whole reason he had left 221 B was because it was too painful to be reminded of Sherlock with every move he made, every thought he had... and yet, here he was, still thinking about him. As he stared at the hard, creaky bed, he could imagine Sherlock laying across it, trying to find a position that made it at least almost as comfortable as he felt when he was on his couch. John could too easily imagine Sherlock whining endlessly about the choice of hotel and how John should have let him be in charge, because he could have found a much better one.
John is roughly pulled out of his near-hallucination by the sound of his phone ringing. He knew, without checking the caller ID, that it was Mrs. Hudson. The funeral would be later that afternoon, and she had been trying to talk him into going with her. Soft spot though he had for her, his answer, each and every time, was a solid no.
He thought of the last conversation he had had with her.
"You know that his funeral is tomorrow? A funeral, for him. Can you imagine the sorts that might turn up to that?" She was trying to cope with soft, tasteful humor, but John wouldn't even look at her. Instead, he just slouched in his chair, picking at the arm of it, ignoring Mrs. Hudson standing awkwardly next to him. John had shut off the moment he heard the word 'funeral.'
"No one."
"Pardon?" She was taken aback by his rough voice.
John finally looked up at her. "The 'sorts' that would turn up to his funeral." He shook his head bitterly. His voice was flat. "No one's going, Mrs. Hudson. He alienated everyone. I wouldn't be surprised if the only ones to show up would be you and Mycroft." He spit out the last word. The name of the older Holmes brother left a bad taste on his tongue.
"And you too, dear." Mrs. Hudson's voice was hopeful. She already knew what he was going to say.
No movement. He just kept picking, picking, picking at the armrest on his chair. "I'm not going."
"But... surely you can't mean that? This is your last chance to say goodbye."
John stood up and walked away from her, grabbing his coat and heading out the door.
"Bastard can sod off," He said as loudly and angrily as he could. "I don't have a bloody thing to say to him."
Now, phone ringing, John contemplated not answering. He couldn't do that to poor Mrs. Hudson, though. Every so often, he had to remind himself that he wasn't the only one grieving the loss of that wonderful, maddening, callous, selfish man.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson."
"Have you reconsidered, dear?" Her voice was warm, but there was also decisiveness in her tone. She could read him like an open book, it seemed.
There were a few beats of silence before he sighed in defeat.
"I don't think I can handle this, Mrs. Hudson. I don't think I can stand to see everyone else grieving, I don't think I can stand getting there and seeing how few people will be there because he deserves better than that, pretentious git though he was. I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I just can't do it."
She sighed and was silent for a moment. "It's okay, I understand. We don't have to go for the funeral. We can leave for the cemetery after the funeral finishes. But I know you'll regret it if you don't go. I don't believe for one second that you don't have anything to say, and speaking your piece could help."
John took a moment to think.
"Okay. Let me know when you'd like to leave."
The sight of the grave had taken him aback, and once again he felt the heart-wrenching clarity that this was real. This was truly happening. He couldn't take his eyes off of the tombstone, dark and shining and ominous, just as Sherlock had been. Mrs. Hudson had already left, deciding John needed a moment. He whirled through a few different things, words tumbling out of his mouth. He thought he was done, but as he walked away, another thought struck him and he abruptly turned back around.
"One more thing. One more miracle for me, Sherlock. Don't be... dead." He felt the familiar tug of a tight throat and threatening tears and breathed in. "Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it- stop this." He brandished an accusatory finger at the grave that he couldn't bring himself to accept. Head bowed, hand covering his face, he allowed himself to cry. Just for a moment, he felt his shoulders shake before he straightened up, grit his teeth, and stiffly walked away.
His pleas would forever go unnoticed, unanswered. There would be no miracle. Sherlock was dead. Death was permanent. Sherlock would not be coming back- ever. It didn't matter what he wished for, hoped for, insisted would happen. Even now, after his death, Sherlock still managed to overshadow John's wants and needs for his own selfish purposes.
As John hurried out of the cemetery, he decided he had a new resolve. He would not allow himself to cry. He would not allow this to destroy him. He would continue his therapy sessions, go back to work, and stay in 221 B Baker Street because that was his home, and he couldn't allow that to be taken from him, too. He knew that, eventually, he would be okay. Hopefully, one day in the near future, this gaping hole inside him would be stitched up and on the mend.
The only way for him to do that would be to work through it. And if that didn't work, he would just push it down, simply block it all out. If anything, he had learned that from Sherlock. He had picked up how simple it could be to shut everything off.
For weeks, John's resolve held. He didn't shed a tear, didn't allow himself to think about Sherlock. On the occasion he did, he instantly shoved away the sharp pain that came along with it. He was doing well, keeping his guard up, handling everything, getting on with his life.
He was doing well. With everything.
But it was finding the first of Sherlock's notes that was his undoing.