The doctor was in the room when Sherlock returned, like he knew he'd come calling.
"How is he?" he asked quietly, sitting down across the room from John and not making eye contact.
"His condition hasn't changed Mr Holmes."
Sherlock exhaled loudly.
"And what was it... the organ donation. What would that be like?"
The man carefully sat down next to Sherlock in a chair.
"He had a liver laceration, that's what the surgery was for, so that wouldn't be useable, but everything else would be. His heart, his lungs, kidneys, corneas, even some of his skin could be used for burn victims. Afterwards, he wouldn't look any different, so if the funeral was to be open casket..." he trailed off. "And if there is anything you don't want us to take, that's also fine. I would just like you to seriously consider it, and also his wishes."
Sherlock was listening, but the whole time his brain was screaming at him that it was all wrong, that they weren't going to be allowed to cut John up and take out all his bit that made him who he was, then stitch him back up, empty inside, and return him. No, no, no.
But that's not what John would have wanted. John was a selfless person, always helping, even getting himself shot for his troubles.
But now John was dead, and he left Sherlock behind all alone, so how did he have the right to make decisions anymore when he told Sherlock, to his face, fucking told him "I'll be fine."
No, with that, Sherlock lost all thoughts of selflessness.
So what if he wanted to be selfish? There was no one around to tell him that it was a bit not good, no one to make him wear the hat, to tell him it was sarcasm, no one left.
And that made him furious.
Sherlock got up calmly, ignoring the doctor who trailed off when he did, confused by Sherlock's actions. It really made no difference to him, since he stopped listening moments ago.
Sherlock looked mournfully at John lying in the bed, still motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest.
And ever so carefully, he draped his upper body across the bed, wanting to hold as much of John as he could, to feel his warmth, to reassure himself that John Watson was still in existence.
But he wasn't, not really.
And that was the horrible truth Sherlock kept trying to delete, every single time it popped into his head. The recycling bin must have been full of them, piled high with the truth that Sherlock didn't want to face, didn't want to admit, because to do so would admitting to himself and everyone else that the John Watson that Sherlock knew, the John Watson that Sherlock was friends with, the one who lived with him, put up with him when no one else would, who cared enough to feed him, to run around London with him, to shoot a man for him, that John Watson was gone. And this John Watson that Sherlock was currently clinging to was nothing but an empty shell that held a once great man. And not only that, but a good man.
Sherlock sobbed into the sheets.