John found little time of his own to grieve once he broke the news to Mrs. Hudson, the woman who was so much like a mother to the two men breaking down in John's arms, her grip on his jacket tight, the tears soaking into his shirt as he held her against his chest. He rubbed her back, attempted soothing words, but the longer he stayed with her the more he felt himself pulling away from his own emotions, burying them deep within himself.
He allowed himself to get so tied up in one person, their lives becoming so intermingled that he wasn't sure where to start, what thread to pull at to begin unraveling the mess. Once he was able to pull Mrs. Hudson off of him and get her a soother to help her sleep, he found himself sitting in his chair, the quietness surrounding him, dust appearing as if it were already beginning to settle around him as he rested his head on his hand.
For several hours he sat in silence, the world dark outside the windows, his mind unable to settle enough to allow him to sleep. It was only when he started smelling something foul emanating from the kitchen that he finally pulled himself to his feet, beginning a process of cleaning up and ridding the flat of Sherlock's experiments that lasted for several hours, the end of it finding all of Sherlock's lab equipment cleaned and returned to the table as if he were about to come from his room and sit behind the microscope at any moment.
For a fleeting moment, standing in the kitchen next to the table, John found himself getting angry, enraged at Sherlock. He wanted to pick up each of the beakers and throw them against the wall with as much force as he could muster, wanted to sever each of the strings on his violin, wanted to smash the skull to bits on the ground, but he closed his eyes, nostrils flaring for a brief moment before he found the strength to bury the emotion again, hands shaking as he walked out of the kitchen.
When his phone started buzzing in his pocket, John ignored the call and turned the phone off, only looking at the screen long enough to see Mike Stamford's name flash across the screen before it went black. The anger threatened to make a reappearance, and the flat began to feel constricting, John trying to calm himself with several deep breaths; the very person who started him down this path is the last person he wanted to communicate with.
John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, the fatigue finally starting to get to him as he felt himself sway on his feet. He stood in the doorway just outside of the kitchen contemplating his next move, whether sleep would even be possible at this point. His body was telling him yes, but a nagging at the back of his head was telling him it would be far from a peaceful sleep and not to bother with it.
After almost stumbling on his feet, John decided that at least making an attempt would be better than not, knowing that there were a lot more obstacles to deal with over the next few weeks. As the sun was rising, he imagined that some people were just learning of Sherlock's death, of the downfall of the consulting detective. John knew the papers would be smearing his name, losing in the battle against Moriarty. It was everything the consulting criminal hoped for, and it made John's stomach turn.
The thought followed John to Sherlock's room, the decision on where he would attempt sleep an easy one to make. It had been almost two months since John last slept in his own bed, the room at the top of the stairs all but forgotten as he found himself storing stuff in Sherlock's room absentmindedly. It was at Sherlock's insistence when John would sleep past his alarm and found himself having to rush upstairs to get a fresh set of trousers and a jumper that Sherlock told him he had no issue with him using space in his closet. The separation between the clothes was obvious, several of John's favorite jumpers hanging alongside the expensive suits that Sherlock wore, but just like waiting until Sherlock fell asleep to enter the room and do the same, John waited until Sherlock made the move himself to hang up some of his clothes in his closet. Otherwise John felt like he was imposing, taking something that didn't belong to him.
He wondered at what point he became so dependent on Sherlock, but the thought of the dreams was a quick reminder, a twinge of pain felt in his neck when he thought about the nights spent sleeping in his chair. He often wondered what triggered the nightmares to begin again in the first place, but could never quite put his thumb on it, instead just glad he, or Sherlock for that matter, found a way to stop them.
It took John a moment to build up the courage to open Sherlock's door, and when he did, it felt like he was beginning to feel inside, empty. Of course he had been in there plenty of times when Sherlock wasn't around, but this time was different, almost as if the spirit was gone from the room.
John stood silently a few steps inside the door, trying to feel Sherlock's presence, but he soon realized it was of no use as he looked around at everything the detective left behind. The act of suicide was a quick decision, John believed, nothing in Sherlock's actions the previous day pointed to the detective's final fate. He wondered what Sherlock's last thoughts were as he walked out of the room, wondered if he took into consideration that he wouldn't be back, that everything that was him would be left behind for others to deal with. He wondered if Sherlock realized he would be leaving him behind, if he even cared.
It was the final thought that broke John where he stood, his legs giving out from under him as he crumbled to the ground, legs tucked up under him as the sobs began wracking through his body, his face buried in his hands. His whole body felt as cold as Sherlock's hand in the mortuary, his sight becoming clouded with the vision of blood when he closed his eyes. He felt like the flood gates were opening, unable to stop them, and he knew exactly what Sherlock would say if he were to see him right now but he didn't care, Sherlock no longer got a say in how John acted or reacted.
For almost an hour John remained in a heap on the floor, pathetic sounds escaping his throat as he cursed Sherlock, declared his hate for what he had done. He knew Sherlock cared for little other than himself, but this was much more than that, and it was a decision John could no longer handle.
When he finally managed the strength to pull himself up off the floor, John gave one last look around the room, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. He couldn't pretend to be a solider anymore, the stoic expression gone as he found the strength to leave the room, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair before leaving the flat for good.
I think I spend more time having to re-read and correct this fic than I do actually writing it. I don't ever write in past tense, and I keep forgetting that. Hopefully I haven't missed any flub ups, forgive me if I have. There's a method to the madness that you'll see in the end.