A heart takes more than a year to heal

by WordsAreASacredThing

It was a year ago. A year ago that the fake genius fell to his death from the top of Saint Barts Hospital in London after the news spread like wildfire that everything he had said, everything he had done, was a lie. He took his own life. His best friend was left picking up the pieces of his broken heart and broken soul off the hard cold floor of reality. This is his story.

2. The anger that comes calling

He still received fake calls off people, pretending to be Sherlock, pretending that he was okay. It was all a big joke to them. This man, this crazy man had lied and was a huge fraud, he had become famous from his dirty sins. And now he was dead. That's all it was to people. To the public.

No one understood who he really was.

He had perfected the technique of seeming not to care, of being a stone and having no emotions but spending time with him, John had learned the truth about this mysterious man. Inside his hard metallic skin there was a very delicate creature. One that did feel. One that felt every time Donovan called him Freak. One that had felt when John had-

When John had called him a machine. That had been a mistake. A heat of the moment mistake that he could never take back now. It didn't matter anyway. It was just another way he had failed. He didn't need it. The more he thought about it the more sick he felt.

People still recognised him in the street. They recognised him in the damned street and tried to talk about Sherlock to him. As if they knew him. They had no idea. No idea at all. No one did. They all tried so hard to unwind the great Sherlock Holmes, Why had he lied? Was he so desperate for the attention? Maybe it was years of living under his brothers shadow? And no matter how many times John told them, the papers and tabloids still twisted his words to offend Sherlock. They used his own words against his friend.

How dare they?

How Dare They?

How. Dare. They?

HOW DARE THEY?!

John took three shaky breaths, counting to ten in his head.

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There. Ever since Sherlock had gone he had struggled with his pain, with his anger. He seemed to just go off like a bomb. Hah. Ironic. Trying to control the anger just made it worse, it bubbled up so much that it shot out of him. How do you control a volcano?At least the deep rage pushed the grief to the back of his mind, just for a few brief seconds. Seconds of blissful relief where he could just smash and shout at the world and yet still everything seemed blissfully quiet. Sherlock would have understood what that meant. Why he felt like that. He would have come out with some smart arse comment with a scientific name. Told him he was wrong to care but he didn't care if he was wrong any more. He cared.