A/N: Post Riechenbach angst. It had to come back eventually. This whole idea is a bit overworked by now, I'm sure, but I wanted to try my hand at it. So there ya go. Also, if you were wondering, I'm to Season 5 of Supernatural (about half way through) and I ship Destiel super hard. (Although perhaps not as hard as the Dean and Sam bromance; I'm not the type for Wincest though.) Expect a few SPN fics from me sometime soon, if anyone is interested. Anyways, enjoy!

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): Post-TRF, schizophrenic-ish themes, imaginary/hallucination!Sherlock, cray-cray!John, unhealthy "coping methods," some dark themes, blood, jumpy tense, and angst.

Coping and How to Avoid It

Every morning John Watson makes two cups of coffee. One with cream, no sugar. One black, two sugars. He leaves both cups on the counter to cool for a while after they're done; Sherlock would drink it immediately regardless of the scalding it would give his throat. Or, he would, if Sherlock weren't

No. Stop. Retreat, retract, push, delete. John has picked up a few things from his flat mate over the years. Purposeful ignorance, for one.

"Good morning. Did you ever get to bed last night?" John knew Sherlock hadn't, of course, but he asked anyway. As usual Sherlock made no effort to reply and John made no effort to make him do so, just putting Sherlock's mug beside the microscope and going to his laptop. "Any cases today?"

"No," said Sherlock. He looked up from his microscope to frown. The expression looked off, just slightly Not Sherlock. John felt a twist in his gut. Brains are fuzzy. Even the clearest things, the most real things, the most important things, blur; John thought he'd forget his own face before he'd forget Sherlock, but still, it appeared that he would. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Crime has been slow, so slow. No murder sprees, no grand schemes, not even an interesting robbery. It's dreadful."

"Maybe they're scared of you." John chuckled at the thought. No. Crime masters weren't smart enough to be scared of Sherlock, were they? Of course – no deletedeletedelete. "We could go to Angelo's," John offered.

Sherlock stopped responding. John set his jaw. The cursor on the blank computer document blinks up at him, bewildered. He clutched the coffee cup with white knuckles. Swallowed hard. He knew if he looked up it would be too much. Far too much.

The coffee by the microscope goes cold.

.

Every afternoon John and Sherlock have a nice conversation over dinner. It wasn't this way before, but now, it is, and it's nice. They talk about everything and anything. Or, mostly, John will just listen to Sherlock rambling about whatever complicated experiment or dazzling deduction he's conjured up. John is happy to listen. Sherlock's voice is melodic, perfect, forever etched into John's soul, and John could listen for hours even though sometimes John can't understand the words he's saying.

John never makes Sherlock a plate. Sherlock would only waste it and, if he's hungry, he'll mooch off John's plate. This isn't anything different than before. Except that it is because Sherlock never does. He won't mooch. He's never hungry. There's a reason for that; it's because he's –

No no shut up no please. Some days they have a conversation just like this:

"I miss you, Sherlock."

"That is irrational. I'm right here with you."

"I know. But it isn't the same."

"Because I'm dead."

"Because you're dead."

"Ah. Please don't' cry. It's ridiculous."

"Bugger off."

"Why must you miss me so badly? I never did anything to deserve it. I was a bastard in the end. You have every reason to hate me."

"No. I love you."

"Loved, you mean."

"No. Love. Some things just don't go into the past tense, not ever."

"Oh."

"I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock never replied to that. That was OK, though. Sherlock wouldn't have replied if he were real, either. He wouldn't ever hear; couldn't ever hear. Still, John said it, offered his soul to the void that was Sherlock's legacy. Meaningless, empty, but there none the less.

.

Every night John stands outside Sherlock's bedroom door. He swore he could hear Sherlock's quiet snoring through the walls, even when he was downstairs with the tele blaring. Standing outside, John hesitated. He always did. Not without good reason – there are two options for nights like this.

On some nights John will open the door and Sherlock will be sprawled out on the bed. Sometimes, asleep. Sometimes, deep in thought. Always his eyes will flick open and he'll say, "Can't sleep?" and John will just nod and crawl in beside him. Sherlock would smirk and let John lay down beside him, perhaps secretly pleased to have someone to talk at. Not touching – never touching – but close enough that John can feel Sherlock's soft ramblings on the back of his neck. Sherlock will keep talking even after his deep baritone lulls John to sleep. This had not been a thing before. How could it have been? It had happened only once before Sherlock—

No no no no. Stop that. Nightmares haunt him more than ever, but those nights help some.

More nights, John will open the door and regret it. His own hallucinations betray him; Sherlock will be there. He's always there. But then, lifeless, laying sprawled in scarlet like a broken doll. During the first year, John's heart would stop when he saw this. Be prompted to have a hideous breakdown, fly out of the room like all hell might be after him. He just couldn't deal with it then. The bloodstained skin. The curls slicked with red. The blown, lifeless gray eyes. But it's been almost three years now and John would just feel numb. He'd leave quietly, eyes shut, and carefully scrape the image out of his mind. Submitting to another sleepless night.

That night, though, John is even more exhausted than usual and he decided having-either or was useless. He's hardly sane at this point anyway; you can't go down from the bottom. So he strolled over. Brushed his fingers over Sherlock's face – cold, lifeless, imaginary nostop – and gently pushing his eyes closed. Sherlock looked less dead without those empty eyes. Yes, not dead. Just sleeping. Peaceful. Yes. John curled into the bed and pretended he could feel Sherlock's warm breath on his neck.

Sometimes he can still smell the blood.

.

Every Sunday John would go down to the cemetery. Sometimes he brings flowers. Sometimes he brings case files and newspapers. Once, he brought the skull – "An old friend is here to see you, 'Lock." – but he got too much attention for that.

Almost always, Sherlock comes along. He would sit beside the gravestone and fondle the gifts John leaves for the grave, silent unless spoken to. The quietness might be seen as respectful except t hat it wasn't. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear every visit.

"Why the grin?"

"It's funny," Sherlock would say. "Visiting my own grave? Well, don't look at me that way, John. You giggle at crime scenes. I'm only thinking of Huckleberry Finn."

John never said Rest in Peace in relation to Sherlock. He'd never been at peace in life – always buzzing, moving, thinking, fighting everything (even himself, especially himself) down to the very last breath. John had no reason to believe that would change just because Sherlock wasn't breathing anymore. That he couldn't be "up there," still causing trouble. Heaven's very own consulting angel. John isn't religious in the slightest, but it's a nice thought. It helps him cope with—

No. Stopstopstop oh, god, please no get away get out of my head. Hesalivehesalivehesalive don't leave me—

Delete.

He's not really coping at all.

Some days I think I'm hallucinating that my review count is what it is. Wowwowwow... send me more?