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Numb to open and raw, then back again, that is how he lives these days. John feels like he is trapped under a sheet of ice being pulled along. His lungs burn but if he stops fighting he can let the current take him. He still sees the world but he isn't a part of it. Still trapped under his grief.
He picks up as may hours as he can at the clinic. John can detach from himself as he diagnoses chest colds and sprains. Only once has he lost his composure.
Young man
black hair, slight curl
too skinny.
Sprained his ankle leaping from a second story window.
It was all too much like him, all flash and reckless energy, voice all wrong though, nothing sounding as brilliant as He would have made it.
John had to step out, push down the disappointment that flooded him. Was he that stupid to think that after all this time Sherlock was anything but dead. John took the rest of that day off. The dreams that night had been very vivid, falling, a great coat billowing like crows wings.
John had tried to keep in touch with friends and coworkers after the funeral, he would go see Molly, Lestrade, hell he even talked to Anderson. It all became too much though. Molly kept crying while saying all these nice things about Sherlock that were only half true at best. Lestrade would fumble to change topics from anything Sherlock related, all while looking at John with such pity. One conversation with Anderson had been enough. The first time he uttered the word freak John had punched him square in the jaw. (extremely satisfying until Johns first thought was how pleased Sherlock wold have looked) All these people were grieving (maybe not Anderson) and John felt nothing, only hallow. It was easiest to cut ties, a nice clean break maybe they would all heal that way.
It had been one month since John had last heard from Lestrade when he showed up at Baker St. He had come under the guise of a second opinion on a case, a lie that even John could see through. John reminded Greg that he didn't do that anymore, just a regular doctor now. He looked at the pictures Greg handed him anyway. John tried to focus but he couldn't see anything but blood.
Flashes of that day rushed him, over took his senses, blood pooling on the sidewalk, the heavy metallic smell and wet warmth seeping into the knees of his trousers. The room started to spin, John's whole world off its axis.
“Are you alright John?” Lestrade sounded genuinely concerned. “Are you going to be sick? I know its not pretty, close rage gun shot from what we can tell.”
John forced himself to look up, away from the picture and at Greg. 'His lips are moving. John thought and threw up on the floor between them.
Greg stayed, helped John clean up, managed to find a tin of soup to heat up after he had John lay down on the sofa.
“There is a nasty bug going around the clinic,” John reassured him “must be the latest victim.” He tried to not sound like his whole world was coming apart. John just managed to sound very tired and weak.
“Get some rest then. A sick doctor can't do anyone much good.” Greg was a good man to play along. He had offered to stop in tomorrow to see if he needed anything but John told him to to worry. Mrs. Hudson was just down stairs after all.
Lestrade awkwardly apologized for bringing the crime scene photos over and invited John out of a pint when he was feeling better. John agreed but both men knew it was never going to happen. John expected he would never feel better.
John had expected Mycroft to come to the flat and collect the whole of Sherlock's belonging but it had been 2 week after the funeral before Mycroft had called.
“Will you be staying at 221B?” the older man inquired.
“I... I'm not sure. He's...” John stopped, not wanting to break down to this man. He cleared his throat before continuing, “Not sure I can afford it.”
“My brothers half will continue to be paid by me.” Mycroft sounded absolute in his decision.
“I'm not interested in charity Mycroft.” John latched onto his anger. Anger was easier than the crippling sadness.
“Then consider it a storage fee. I have no interest in my brothers.. things and hiring someone to clean up after him is a waste if you are going to stay.” Mycroft sounded as detached as ever as if discussing the weather.
“I can't live here still surrounded by him.” John's voice sounded too small, foreign to his own ear. God, he did not want to be having this conversation.
“Do what you wish with his belonging.” A small pause, “I think he would have preferred you to me taking care of this.” John heard himself agreeing, that he would do what he could.
“Please inform me if the task proves to be too much.” another pause before Mycroft added quietly “Thank you, John.” Then the line to dead.
John sat in his chair for hours trying to piece himself together and figure out where to start. He fell in to a restless sleep filled with promises of cruel magic tricks and blood on the sidewalk.
It had taking John another two months before he could move anything Sherlock had touched and left scattered about the flat. Violin out of the case by the window, text books still open on almost every flat surface and piles of papers and sheet music covering parts of the floor. The flat had become a most morbid museum. John didn't live in the flat so much as live around his best friends ghost. Use one cup, one plate, one fork wash only those. Not the mug dried tea staining the bottom, Sherlock had drank from it his last cuppa...
John had mused in weaker times that given the right materials he could lift a perfect lip print from its rim.
All these things that crowded John's flat and life were pieces of Sherlock. Putting it all away meant the end had really come. No more pretending he had just stepped out to the morgue soon to return frustrated or maybe covered in blood or so happy he was bouncing. Losing that, knowing he was never coming back made John's head and heart ache.
One evening John woke on the sofa feeling stiff. It was still dark out so he hadn’t dozed for very long not that it stopped his shoulder form aching. As he righted himself a book that Sherlock had draped across the arm fell to the floor with a thump. John was horrified at the noise. A book, not his, fell, Sherlock's book fell. He rushed over hoping no damage had been done. The book, A Practical Guide to Beekeeping, was fine just laying closed on the floor. John frantically thumbed through the pages looking for any sign as to where it had been open. It was a well worn copy having been read a number of times. Sherlock at one point had even made notes in most of the margins, John let his fingers run over the neat tight script. There was no way for him to know, John would never know where the last place Sherlock had touched this book.
Feeling both emotionally and physically exhausted, John laid back on the sofa and fallen into a restless sleep. That night the dreams were a welcome change from most nights, no falling, just blood, bees wings, and the taste of honey.
John woke slowly afternoon light streaming through the windows above the desk, the book still clutched to his chest. 'This is ridiculous.' John thought as he rubbed his shoulder still throbbing form sleeping mostly sitting up. John walked to the kitchen made tea and toast all without putting the book down. He absentmindedly looked through the text and Sherlock's notes. He smiled, a true smile, as me moved back to the sitting room and over to the bookcase.
“Guess I start here.” John mused. The book was placed on the shelf, he fingers lingered on the spine. He could do this, he could moved on and be whole. The rest of the day passed as any other. Patients to see at the clinic, a stop to Texaco on the way home that night a small smile crossed his lips as he drifted off. The night he didn't dream of falling.
It was painfully show going, John would assign himself small goals on his days off. Sort the pile of papers in front of the telly, put away 5 books, 10 books, get rid of what had made the fridge smell so bad. (rate of decay of flesh at temperatures below 8 degrees C.)
John never threw anything away that wasn't a health hazard. He felt like this was good, pealing back the layers that made up Sherlock and his world. Most things he found made perfect sense, well worn copies of Gray's Anatomy, an index of poisonous plants, chemistry and biology texts. Other finds made John smile in a way he had not for months, a variety of articles on tobacco and reference sheets for identifying the brands, a beekeeping journal that a younger Sherlock had filled in the Information page out. There where hard days of course. A folded up photo of Sherlock and Mycroft much younger both smiling had reduced John to tears for an hour before he called it a day.
It was two days before John moved another item. He started in the kitchen and dining room, nothing to personal stored there. He moved into the sitting room starting with the coffee table covered with notes and copies (he hoped) of case files. The desk was another matter, having moved only a few items and having found that photo, John decided to leave it as it was.
The last thing John put away was Sherlock's violin. He knew that sitting under with window on the desk wasn't the best place for it and he had found the case days ago stuffed under Sherlock's chair. John woke the next four days telling himself today would be the day. He even let his hand rest on the neck where Sherlock's deft thin fingers had months before. Pain bloomed in the pit of his stomach, the world started to swim as his eyes glazed over with tears, holding back a sob John had left the violin alone.
On day five John pulled the case from its hiding spot and opened it, smiled as he shifted through the contents. A small amount of resin and a spray bottle that he could only guess was some sort of cleaner. Something tucked under it all caught his eye, a small piece of paper, he pulled it out. John almost dumped the case to the floor. The room was spinning, moving to fast, John's breath came in small huffs as he sank into Sherlock's chair to avoid ending up on the floor. The case fell off his lap hitting with an impossibly loud thud as the contents flew out and mostly under the coffee table. That small piece of paper, news print, fluttered from his hand to a stop just under the table as well. John sat breathing for a moment, steeled his nerves, he had to get a second look. His mind had been playing tricks on him those first few weeks and he had learned not to trust his eyes. John got his breath back the best he could and moved on to the floor reaching for the bit paper. It was from yesterday's paper, the date confirmed that but there hadn't been a newspaper in the flat for months. The headlines and sorted stories were too much to bear. John leaned his back against the table facing the desk, stunned. In very neat, very familiar script was one word. As his world came crashing down around him John heard the door to 221B open as the word came into focus.
“BORED”