FIRST YEAR WITHOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES
The first year without Sherlock was probably the worst thing John had ever gone through. It was worse than Afghanistan- injury included.
The first month after Sherlock jumped off of the roof of St. Bart's was comprised of silence. John didn't speak or see anyone. He sat in his chair, staring at the leather seat the detective had occupied. He knew that Mrs. Hudson came into the flat and restocked the kitchen, but he never looked at nor spoke to her. The only times John would get up were when he needed nourishment or relief. When he wasn't doing those things, John just stared, his mind blank.
The only time his mind was active was at night, while he was asleep. He would have horrible, bloody (in every sense of the word) nightmares. They were varied, some of them depicting the fall or Afghanistan, but they all involved Sherlock dying right in front of John, often in his arms.
Even when the nightmares plagued the doctor, he didn't make a sound. He didn't scream or shout. His breathing would be rapid and ragged, tears would be streaming down his face, but not even a whisper could be heard.
It was the sort of silence that spoke volumes louder than the most heart-wrenching cry and with far more eloquence than the most thought-out speech.
A few days after John realized that a month had passed since Sherlock's death, he fell into a peaceful sleep. It was the first time since the fall that he had a night of peaceful rest, and he hated it. His nightmares had been the only thing that allowed John to see his flat mate.
He had awoken with a shudder, his eyes not focusing on anything in particular. His head ached and his body felt as though someone had run him over.
He sighed, making noise for the first time, he realized belatedly, as he walked to the kitchen to make his meager breakfast.
He ate robotically, his head in a fog. What did it mean that he didn't dream about Sherlock? Was it going to become normal to have sleep as empty as reality?
Was he slowly beginning to forget the eccentric detective?
He froze, horrified. He wouldn't forget Sherlock, he couldn't forget him.
John wasn't sure how long he stood there, his entire being focused on the desecrating thought, before he shuffled back to his chair.
He sat down. staring at the ground before he looked up at the leather seat.
There was a person in the chair...
It couldn't be...
It was.
Sherlock sat in silence, staring at the doctor with such fervor that John's heart stopped. Could it be that the detective had returned to the grave for him?
John rushed to the man, torn between the desire to punch or hug him, and stood beside him. They grinned at each other, and John's pulse skyrocketed.
He wanted to be angry at the man for abandoning him, but the only thing that could come out of John's mouth was a simple confession, one overdone by teens and underappreciated by adults. He watched as the detective didn't say a word; he merely leaned forward, still grinning from ear to ear. John reciprocated, moving forward slowly until his face was inches from the detective.
Just as his hand touched Sherlock's, the detective's arm vanished. John stepped away, realization dawning.
It was all in his head. Sherlock Holmes wasn't real, wasn't alive.
He walked back to the kitchen, trying desperately to quell the newfound grief. He made tea; he needed some semblance of normality.
John prepared the soothing beverage mindlessly, not realizing that he made tea for two until he was pouring it into two cups. He sighed and took it back to the leather chair.
He needed normalcy, even if it wasn't real.
As the first year passed, it continued in this manner. John would wake up, sometimes from a nightmare and sometimes from a dark nothingness, and would see Sherlock across from him.
He'd stare at the detective for a moment, before speaking. He would reach out and try to touch Sherlock, but he'd touch air. As soon as he removed his hand, the detective would reappear. John would then return to the kitchen and make tea for two. He'd spend the rest of the day in either sorrowful silence or pointless blathering before falling back to sleep.
Every day he thought that maybe, just maybe, the detective wasn't dead. Every day he thought that maybe, just maybe, the detective returned to him.
Every day he was disappointed.
The detective never once uttered a word.
At first, John didn't mind the change because, no matter how heartbreaking it was, the specter made sure John would never forget his dead flat mate.
But as the days passed, going from weeks to months, he grew desperate.
He didn't want to continue acting as though Sherlock returned to him every single morning.
He wanted to forget his flat mate.
But nothing worked. Touching him resulted in the disappearance of whatever his hand reached towards, but it only lasted as long as John continued making contact. As soon as he removed himself, Sherlock reappeared.
To make matters worse, the detective took to moving around. He would follow John into the kitchen, though never the loo.
One day, John was making himself dinner. He took out a knife and began chopping up carrots. His attention wavered slightly as Sherlock walked up behind him, and John accidently sliced his hand open.
Cursing, John grabbed a nearby towel, wrapping it around his bleeding hand.
It wasn't until hours later when he was finished cleaning the wound that he realized Sherlock had vanished.
He grinned, carrying two cups of tea to the chairs and setting them on the table next to his seat.
He felt free for the first time in what felt like years. There was no Sherlock to be seen, and it wasn't hard for John to imagine that the eccentric detective hadn't even existed.
When John woke up the next morning and glimpsed the apparition staring at him, he wasn't angry or happy.
For the first time since the fall, John was apathetic.
It didn't bother him at all that the specter was back; he knew how to banish it to the hell from which it sprung.