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Sherlock Holmes is dead.
That’s what the coroner told him after he threatened to break the door of the morgue down if he didn’t get answers.
They didn’t let him see him.
Just told him the time of death like it was nothing, told him they were sorry for his loss, and when he’d be transferred to a funeral home.
Since he couldn’t see the body for a prolonged period, John wanted to tell himself that it couldn’t be true, that he wasn’t really dead.
But he’d checked, he’d had no pulse.
John sat on the floor of that hospital for so long that the staff brought him a wheelchair to help him since his legs didn’t seem to be working anymore.
But he waved them off, and finally managed to make himself move, however it was like he wasn’t there. A ghost, not seeing or hearing anything.
A singular question was all that echoed in his ears.
How could Sherlock Holmes be dead?
He was…well an idiot but John was almost becoming convinced that he was invincible at this point.
And yet after avoiding death countless times, the one who took his life, was himself.
*
John isn’t sure how he gets to Baker Street, he can’t remember it, which should scare him but he can’t really feel anything.
He sits in his chair, a million thoughts running through his head.
Mostly he can’t stop thinking about the last conversation they had, before Sherlock got on that roof.
‘She’s dying! You machine-‘
‘You can stay here if you want to, on your own’
‘Alone is what I have, alone protects me’
‘Friends protect people’.
But he didn’t protect him.
Reasonably he knows his reaction wasn’t unwarranted, he thought Mrs Hudson was in danger, but now the words haunt him.
Is that really what Sherlock thought? Was that the warning sign of a depressed man about to ensure he’s alone forever?
How could he not pick on it? He’s a bloody doctor! An army doctor who is no stranger to suicidal people.
More importantly, he’s been there. He’s felt that low before. And yet he still missed the warning signs. And now it’s too late.
He stares at the empty chair opposite him.
‘Tell everyone who will listen. Tell them I created Moriarty for my own purposes’
‘It’s a trick, John. Just a magic trick.’
‘This phone call, it’s my note. That’s what people do isn’t it? Leave a note’
‘Goodbye John’
His vision blurs, his head falls into his hands.
John sits there, he doesn’t know how long has passed but its gotten dark, the room is dim.
Then suddenly the light flicker on.
His head flies up, his breath stops, he turns, expecting to see that mess of dark curls, and a stupid smirk.
‘Fooled you didn’t I? You really thought I was dead? Don’t be stupid, John.’
But it’s just Lestrade.
He looks ashen.
“John.” He doesn’t seem to know what to say.
John swallows, he tries to speak, but he knows words won’t come out so he stops trying.
Lestrade steps closer, moves to sit in the chair opposite, and a single word tears from his throat.
“Don’t!”
It’s Sherlock’s chair.
Nobody else can sit in it.
Lestrade stops like he’s been shocked, but pauses and uprights himself, seeming to understand.
“Sorry.“
The two men are silent for a short while, the tension between them is palpable.
“John, about Sher-“ Lestrade barely says his name, and John is standing up.
He can’t do this.
He finds himself limping for the first time in a year as he staggers up the stairs to his bedroom.
“John!” Lestrade calls after him but John ignores him.
Whatever bullshit Lestrade is about to tell him about Sherlock being a fraud, he won’t hear it.
He doesn’t give a shit what Sherlock, or fucking Jim or Kitty say.
Sherlock was not a liar.
John shuts himself in his room, he props a chair under the door so nobody can open it, and sits on his bed.
There are knocks on the door, “John!” he ignores them.
Eventually he hears footsteps retreating, and a door closing, indicating Lestrade has left.
A short while later he hears more footsteps, and stifled sobs, “J-john?”
Mrs Hudson.
His heart aches. He should open the door, comfort her. She lost him too.
But he can’t find the strength to, it’s as if he’s become rooted to the bed, muscles seized up.
“John please-“
John doesn’t move. Although his own tears begin to fall.
But only once he hears her walking away, does he begin to sob.
John can’t recall the last time he’s cried so hard. Deep heaving sobs that have him bent in half, unable to catch his breath.
The pain tears him into pieces, and it doesn’t stop.
It doesn’t stop.
He begins wishing for any way to make it stop. He wonders briefly if he missed any of Sherlock’s secret drug stashes, then hates himself for it.
Sherlock would hate him if he did that, and not just because they were his drugs.
‘Find your own unhealthy coping mechanism, John. These are mine’ he can almost hear his chastising tone in his head and it only makes him cry harder.
Sleep only finds him when he’s cried himself into near exhaustion, his eyes burning and body aching with grief. His knuckles are also bloody, he doesn’t remember why, but the dent in the wall gives an indicator.
His sleep is fitful, and when he wakes up, he wishes he hadn’t.
John closes his stinging eyes tight, trying to return to the comfort of darkness, but his body refuses.
Despite his consciousness, he remains laying there, just staring at nothing, time feels like it doesn’t exist.
The next few days pass similarly, paralyzed in bed, moving only when his stomach or bladder are in enough pain that he’s forced to address them.
He can hear reporters buzzing around outside, desperate to hear from him or Mrs Hudson. Wanting to know about the ‘fake genius’.
His phone keeps buzzing with messages and calls, so he turns it off.
Mrs Hudson comes to his door a few more times, but he doesn’t answer. She leaves food in his fridge that he forces himself to eat only when he’s near dizziness from hunger, but he feels so sick that it nearly comes up again.
One afternoon she comes by again, “John l-listen I know you’re hurting, I…can’t even imagine-“her voice is tight, “But we need to…we need to plan the-the funeral…please don’t make me do it alone.”
Alone? He would have assumed Mycroft would take care of it.
His anger at that fact is enough to make him open the door.
Mrs Hudson looks at him with nothing short of pity in her eyes.
He’s a mess, he knows it. Mussed unbrushed hair, unwashed clothes, unshaved stubble.
She looks just as distraught.
Silently she hugs him in a bone crushing embrace, and John lets her.
After that, John forces himself to pull himself together, if only for Mrs Hudson’s sake.
John is invited out for drinks with Stamford, an attempt to console him. He actually forces himself to go.
But the moment he steps outside the door, there are reporters trying to speak to him.
‘Did you know Sherlock was a fraud?’
‘Were you in on it too?’
‘Did he say anything to you before he died?’
John doesn’t make it to the bar. He ends up in a jail cell instead after a reporter keeps following him, and harassing him about Sherlock. He knocks the man out clean.
Lestrade bails him out. He looks sad.
“He wouldn’t want this, John.”
It’s hard, but he keeps his hands to himself after that.
*
The funeral comes. It’s one of the hardest days of John’s life.
Sherlock used to tell him that funerals were pointless, that they were for the living, not the dead.
But he helped plan it anyway. Made sure the playlist consisted of his favourite violin pieces, and that the photo of him wasn’t the one of him in the bloody hat.
Maybe it was really for him, but he doesn’t care. Sherlock deserved a good send off.
John chokes his way through his speech.
The crowd is painfully small.
Him, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Molly, Mycroft and a few people John doesn’t recognize, could be relatives, officers or maybe some of his network.
John can’t take his eyes off of Mycroft throughout the service.
He knows the man is stoic, emotionless like Sherlock, but he doesn’t even shed a single tear.
Irritated, he approaches him after the service.
“Are you capable of feeling emotions?” his words are harsh, but he doesn’t care.
Mycroft seems to look through him, “Regrettable, yes. I haven’t entirely lost the capability.”
Greg’s words ring in his ears, and he clenches his fists by his sides, “He’s your brother.”
“Yes. I’m aware.”
John grits his teeth, his voice starts to rise, “Maybe at least look a little bloody sad that he’s dead!”
Mycroft sighs, as if he’s annoyed, “I’m not the weeping type, I’m afraid.”
He’s downright furious, and after spending weeks blaming himself, John is eager to find someone else to take some of the weight.
“You know this is your fault, right? If you didn’t give Sherlock’s life story to that…that maniac, he’d still be here!”
Mycroft opens his mouth, then shuts it. He looks like he wants to say something, and he looks for a moment, troubled.
“I’m sorry, John.” Is all he says, before walking away.
*
The gravestone is set a short while later. Mrs Hudson comes with him to see it.
He didn’t want to, it was just another reminder of what happened. A big stone slab in the ground was all that was left of the most brilliant man he’d ever known.
The golden letters stare back at him, as if taunting him.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
There are already flowers there, obscuring the dates at the base.
John quietly busies himself with arranging the ones he and Mrs Hudson brought.
“There’s all the stuff-“ she’s rambling about the contents of 221B, all of Sherlock’s things, “-thought I might take it to a school-“
“No.” he uprights himself, his reply firm.
Just the idea of any of Sherlock’s things being somewhere other than Baker Street makes him feel sick.
Mrs Hudson gives him a sad look.
God he’s so tired of those sad, pitying looks.
What are you hanging onto it for? He’s dead.
“Just…put it in storage…please.”
He may need it.
Mrs Hudson nods in understanding, placing a gentle hand on his back, “Okay. I’ll give you a-“ her voice catches, “-a moment alone.”
She retreats, leaving John alone with the stone.
He stares at it for a while, as if maybe if he stares long enough, Sherlock will jump out from the grave.
‘The look on your face, John!’
But he doesn’t.
A heavy sigh falls from his lips.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out that stupid blue scarf Sherlock always wore. He ties it round the gravestone.
“Brought this for you.”
John it’s a gravestone. Get it together.
A heavy sigh falls from his lips as he looks at the stone donning the scarf, the pop of blue standing out amongst the black marble.
Talking to gravestones is pointless, he knows, but the words start pouring out before he can even think them.
“You-you told me once that you weren’t a hero. There were days I didn’t even think you were human. But let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human…human being I have ever known. And no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.”
Sherlock can’t hear him, he knows.
But just incase…he needs him to know that he still believes in him.
That someone does.
John braces himself on the tombstone.
His limp has returned. Almost as if to mock him further, tell him that Sherlock was his metaphorical crutch, and without him he’s back to being the broken army doctor with a limp.
“I was so alone a-and I owe you so much.” His voice breaks, his vision blurs.
He needs to walk away, while he still can. Before he ends up on his knees.
He starts to, but then he stops. His breath shakes, desperation clawing at his throat, all rational thought leaving.
“T-there’s one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me.”
His hand clutches the cold stone, tears trickle down his face.
“Don’t. Be. Dead.”
John wipes at his eyes, looking down at the freshly dug earth.
“Would you do-“ he forces air into his lungs, “-j-just for me, just stop it. Stop this.”
He’s making no sense, but he can’t stop.
Everything hurts, and he just needs it to stop. He needs Sherlock here instead of this stupid cold gravestone.
John lets his head fall to his chest, clenching his fist, and gripping the stone hard.
He breathes. In and out.
Pull yourself together.
He wipes his eyes, takes one last look at the stone and walks away.