Forget Me Not Chapter 2, a sherlock fanfic

Hello,

Many thanks to emma de los nardos for betaing and comments!

Any feedback is greatly appreciated.

Forget Me Not – Chapter 2

Coming back to Baker Street after the funeral was not an easy thing to do. The ceremony, small and ascetic as it may have been, had made Sherlock's death real; it had put a full stop to a chapter in John's life, one he wouldn't have wished to end so soon. Not yet, not like this, so unexpectedly and bluntly. Very much like most people when facing the death of someone dear, John had felt the universe had made a dire mistake and that it simply wouldn't be possible for the world to keep turning like it did before that error was fixed. But now, here he was, forced to come to terms with the inevitable fact. He would have to not only understand but also accept that Sherlock wouldn't magically appear from somewhere, excited or sulking or indifferent or whatever his mood would happen to be. The snow would continue to fall on the streets of London but Sherlock would not burst into the living room of Baker Street any more, brushing the evidence of a snowstorm off from his coat and missing the snowflakes in his hair so that they would melt and run down on his neck as small water drops.

Like he had on the day he had died. The last time John had seen him.

The door slams shut and in a few seconds, almost too quick when you consider the pace with which an average person climbs the stairs, Sherlock is in the living room. John glances up from the book he is reading and from where he is sitting - next to the stone-cold fireplace you can't use because there is some kind of container in it, and that container must not, under any circumstances, be moved - he sees that it is snowing outside; Sherlock is covered with the white, cold substance. He brushes his coat, seemingly oblivious or ignorant of the fact that the snow that had covered him is now on the living room floor where it quickly starts to dissipate, turning into water and soaking the carpet. From the excess shadow cast over his sharp features and the certain type of tension in his posture, it is easy to tell that Sherlock is troubled by something.

When the tall man turns to look at John, John doesn't point out that there still is snow in his hair. John merely watches as it slowly melts and disappears, loses the star-shapes in the roundness of the water drops now running down on the side of Sherlock's neck.

He has the urge to stand up and wipe the drops away; instead, he closes his book and waits for Sherlock to speak. The question "What's wrong?" is evident in the army doctor's face; he doesn't have to utter it aloud.

John stood by the window of the empty, quiet flat, staring at the bleak view that opened behind the cold glass. He wished that he had got up to wipe the drops away from Sherlock's face. It would have been a touch more, another fragment of Sherlock's existence stored in his memories.

It hasn't been three weeks yet and already John fears that one day he will run out of those memories.

During the days after the fire John had spent most of his time in a numb, uneventful state. The initial shock and almost invalidating grief caused by the news of Sherlock's death turned quickly into a deep, overpowering sorrow that wrapped itself around John in every waking moment. It coloured whole existence, turned every sensation from the outside world into a remainder of his loss until it made no difference anymore, because everything was sombre and bleak and all he could do was to try to manage it somehow.

He wandered around the empty flat or stood by the window, staring out to nothingness, for long periods of time, not really thinking or feeling anything. It was almost as if he had been expecting something; of course, by now, it started to become clear to him that waiting was pointless. A few people had stopped by to see how he was - Mycroft, Lestrade, even Harry - and all of them seemed to be surprised by how calm he was. John had served them tea, kept up with the conversation and accepted their condolences with a steady, if quiet, presence. Maybe they had expected him to be shattered into pieces, a wobbly mess of a human being devastated over the loss of his friend, partner and lover, all wrapped into one; perhaps they had been more than slightly worried he would fall into depression, or start drinking, or whatever it is that people do in order to cope when faced with an unexpected tragedy and loss.

But John didn't cry, didn't break down, didn't turn to alcohol or other substances; he closed off whatever it was that had been warm and good inside of him when Sherlock had been alive, and he would not allow it to be awoken again. The only way John thought that he would be able to survive Sherlock's death was to deal with it, to accept it as a fact of life. It was something he had no power over and therefore, he thought, he should not wallow in it. In this way he was probably more akin to Sherlock than he realized; but the main reason for him to try to continue his life was that he knew Sherlock would have wanted him to. If this meant letting a part of him die, to turn cold and still and silent, then so be it.

So he functioned as a human being should - got up in the morning, got dressed, ran some errands, ate his dinner, watched telly, or read and went to bed, only to dance the same dance on the following day. And the day after that, and the day after that. He knew he could do it, play the part of John Watson from now till the day the he would die; he knew the role well, knew what was expected of him and knew he could live up to those expectations.

He also knew that this survival - existence, if you will - was now the best he could hope for. Other people did it all the time, why couldn't he?

It was the day after the funeral and John didn't quite know what to do with himself. Sarah had insisted that he take some time off; John had protested that he didn't need any. Then the main water pipe had broken down due to cold and the clinic had to be closed for the time of the reconstruction, so that settled it. John was left with nothing else to do but go back to the empty rooms of Baker Street, very much like he had every day since the fire; but today the burden seemed heavier than it had before, perhaps because the memory of the funeral was still so fresh in his head.

It wasn't like there wouldn't have been anything to do; John knew he should look into practical matters. The truth was that he couldn't afford the flat by himself for a very long time, even if Mrs. Hudson had told him not to worry one bit about the rent for a while. But of course John knew that she needed the money, and therefore he could not live off from her much longer. But in order for him to leave he would have to go through Sherlock's belongings - a task which was quite a monumental one - and for that he didn't have strength for, not today of all days when the mute walls of the flat felt as if they were closing in on him.

In order to escape the suffocating stuffiness he felt - more inside his head than in the flat itself - John thought it would be a good idea to go out and get some air. It was late afternoon, and the sun was already starting to set; the coldness that would creep in immediately after the last rays would fade was already tactile in the air. It would turn out be yet another cold night. John inhaled and exhaled the chilly air, feeling it in his lungs, focusing on the simple act of breathing. He walked aimlessly, with no specific destination in mind; for a while he considered stepping into a pub and getting a pint, but the thought of a crowded, noisy atmosphere where he might be subjected to a social interaction felt slightly overwhelming, so he decided against it.

After some time - he really didn't know for how long he had been walking but it must had been quite a while for it was already almost dark- the direction his feet were taking him became clear to his head as well. It necessarily wasn't the best of ideas, but still he didn't change his course. He would have to do this some day in any case, John reasoned to himself; so he allowed his feet to lead him towards the small industrial area where the Reichenbach warehouse had, until about three weeks ago, stood in.

It didn't take him long to reach the place. There was little left of the building; bulldozers had already taken most of the ruins away, leaving only some smaller scraps and the ground slab of blackened concrete. John imagined he was still able to smell the smoke in the air; most likely it was just a trick played on him by his brain. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and entered the site, walking slowly and keeping his eyes to the ground. Was it at this spot Sherlock had died? Or over there? Had he been dead before the flames had consumed him, or had he been burnt alive? Had he been afraid, or in pain? When his consciousness ceased to exist, what was it that brilliant brain had thought about in its last moment?

John had to close his eyes. He felt slightly dizzy. It really had not been a good idea to come.

It fucking hurt.

Inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth John tried to pull himself together, to push away the thoughts of Sherlock losing his life in this very location. He straightened himself up and turned around to leave, only to realize he wasn't alone anymore; there was a figure standing about 60 feet from him, next to the gate that led to the site.

As he slowly started to make his way towards the person he suddenly, to his astonishment, recognized who it was.

"Molly?" John's voice was surprised.

The woman, dressed in a huge black overcoat, the hood of which covered most of her face, took a few steps towards John. "Hi, umm-" She paused for a bit, and then continued with a relieved voice. She had somehow recovered his name from the back of her memory,"- John."

John walked to her, his hands still in his pockets. "How are you?" It was an odd thing to meet her there and John didn't quite know what to do about it.

Molly looked at him, the bright street lights reflecting in her eyes which held the look of a frightened animal. She looked a bit tired, and her nose was red due to the cold. Or crying. or both. "I'm... good, thank you." She shifted her posture a bit, apparently slightly taken aback by John's presence. "And you?"

John stared at her, blankly. He was so used to the question and yet every time during the past three weeks, whenever presented with it, he felt like grabbing the person asking it, shaking them and shouting something along the lines "What do you think?". Instead, he nodded a bit, stuffing his fists deeper into his pockets and replied with a calm voice, "Ok, thanks, I'm ok."

Molly glanced around, hesitantly. She obviously had the need to explain herself; why, John didn't have a clue. "I just wanted to come, you know, I..." She spoke quickly and with a quiet voice that sounded very sad, as if she was on the verge of tears. John hoped she wouldn't start crying; he wouldn't have any idea what to do. "I wasn't invited to the funeral, I mean of course, I'm not family or anything..." Her voice trailed off and she looked at John, jealousy quite visible in her eyes, even if she tried to conceal it.

John cleared his throat a bit. "Well, it was a very small funeral."

Molly nodded quickly. "Yes, yes, I know." She sounded a bit embarrassed. Then she straightened herself and looked at John very cautiously. "You must miss him. You were close."

John merely nodded. Suddenly the whole situation felt exhausting to him. He wanted to leave.

Molly continued with a voice that was a bit distant. She wasn't looking at John anymore but somewhere behind his shoulder. "I didn't know him all that well, really, I mean he was often there in Bart's so I saw him a lot but I didn't know him... He was so difficult to talk to, you know, so distant sometimes... Like the other day when he was there and he had that bandage in his hand and I tried asking what happened to him and he just didn't reply at all, he was so odd sometimes." Molly closed her mouth with a snap, her expression revealing the confusion caused by her sudden monologue. She looked like a deer caught in headlights.

John cleared his throat a bit. "Yes, yes, I guess he was. Listen, Molly -"

Molly's voice had a hint of irritation in it as she cut in. "You have to go, I know."

For a second John saw how her life must be, working with dead bodies from day to day and being infatuated with a man who not only never replied to her feelings but now was also dead, and he felt sorry for her; then the feeling passed and the numbness that had became so familiar to him took over.

"I'll see you around, Molly." His voice was quiet; they both knew that the link connecting them was now gone and they probably wouldn't cross paths anymore.

Molly nodded. "Ok, bye then, John." There was a flicker in her eyes, something so fast and so well hidden John wasn't sure if it was there, but it made him unease nevertheless - he thought he had seen a victorious glee in her eyes, just for a second - and then it was gone, and most likely it was never there in the first place. Why would she possibly feel victorious?

When he came to his senses every now and then for short snippets of time, it was always the same - the same white room, the same leather straps making sure he wouldn't take a step even if his body would have found the energy for it, the same sluggishness of his mind and the same horrible blankness he was faced with when he tried to remember something.

There was pain, as well, he felt it now - aches all over his body, some of them stronger than others. But it didn't come even close in comparison to the agony he felt over the emptiness that ruled inside his head; it was, simply put, terrifying. When the nurse - she was also always the same, and her name was Rachel - came, he tried asking her what was going on, why was he there, what had happened - and was always faced with the same, kind indifference which he imagined was supposed to be calming but managed only to agitate him more. It was, by now, more than obvious to him that he was being constantly drugged, but there was nothing he was able to do about it; just lie there, helpless, waiting for some kind of turn or change.

The change came about one evening - well, he thought it was evening but it could have been in the middle of the night, he had no grasp of time anymore and he didn't know how long he had been wherever he was. the change came in the form of another "patient", as he himself was being called. He had been lying in his bed, half awoke and half asleep, trying to fight his way out from the drug-induced slumber he was forced into when the door opened and another bed was rolled in by the nurse Rachel.

In the bed lay a man, sleeping or otherwise unconscious, mid-thirties perhaps, with dark hair and dressed in a familiar-looking gown. He wasn't very tall, and had a lean build; something in him appeared slightly familiar which was enough to raise his interest in the strange man. Did he know him?

The nurse wheeled the bed next to the wall, too far to make anything out from the features of the sleeping man. She then injected something in him and as she did, spoke with a voice audible enough to fill the otherwise silent room.

"Here's your new roommate, Tim." She hummed quietly as she went on doing whatever it was that she was doing. Her voice was as gentle and calm, as it always was. "His name is Andy, and he will be here with you for a while."

Then another injection, this time in his own arm, and everything was black again.

Later that evening, when he was getting ready to go to bed, something in the way Molly had behaved bothered John. He couldn't pinpoint it at all, but there definitely was something. The fact that she was on the site in the first place was odd, but that wasn't it - maybe she had just wanted to say her goodbyes. People do stranger things than that.

But then, just as he was about to fall asleep, it came to him, so clear and strong and obvious he couldn't understand why he hadn't realized it immediately.

Molly had mentioned Sherlock had had a bandage in his hand, which had been true - Sherlock had cut himself a day before the fire while doing something John necessarily hadn't needed to know the details of, but he hurt himself so bad that he had needed John to put in a few stitches.

But the last time Sherlock had been in Bart's had been three days before that. There was no way Molly could have seen the bandage.

Or rather - there was no way Molly could have seen the bandage before the fire.