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You can’t love someone if they’re dead.
No one’s used precisely those words, but John hears them regardless. Sees them in the pitying looks of his friends. Move on, they say. Sherlock would probably agree with them. Sentiment, he’d say. People die, John. That’s what they do. Caring is not an advantage.
He’s right, of course. Even when the actual man is dead, the Sherlock in John’s head is right.
Don’t be dead, John had asked, and the Sherlock in his head had apparently listened. John tells exactly no one. Not even his therapist. Definitely not his therapist. It’s not healthy, she’d say. You need to let him go, she’d say.
John can’t do that. Won’t. Doesn’t matter either way. His world can never go back to being the one he existed in before. That’s what they don’t understand.
John moves out. The Sherlock in John’s head is not impressed. Look at the pattern of wear on the carpet. The scratches on that baseboard. Secret compartment. This flat belonged to a drug dealer John, surely you can do better. John can’t. He uses the compartment to store a cigar box filled with mementos of his adventures with Sherlock. He doesn’t tell anyone about that, either.
John gets a full time job at a clinic. The Sherlock in John’s head is bored. She doesn’t have bronchitis, she’s allergic to her new cat. Note the long hairs clinging to her trousers and the scratch marks on her hand. Tedious as always, John.
John goes on dates. The Sherlock in John’s head is extremely picky. Her hair is grown out two inches at the roots. Scratches on her heels covered up with ink. Not incriminating certainly, but she’s a liar at the very least. No vice president of a bank would pinch pennies like that. I told you online dating was a bad idea.
John goes out for drinks with Lestrade. He helps Mrs. Hudson with repairs. He has dinner with Molly. He carves out a life for himself. The Sherlock in his head stays with him and keeps up a running commentary of deductions and snark. He’s an insensitive arse, just like the real Sherlock was. He keeps John’s grief at the loss of the real Sherlock from destroying him.
John isn’t crazy. He knows he’s just talking to himself. But it helps. It helps to scream at the Sherlock in his head for leaving him. For trying to get John to doubt him. For making John watch him die. For it taking his death to make John realize how much he loved him.
Love. I don’t do love, the Sherlock in his head always growls.
Doesn’t matter, John always replies. You can’t stop me. And fuck you, because there are a lot of ways to love someone and I know you loved me in at least one of them. You can’t convince me otherwise.
That’s because I’m dead, John.
See. I win.
It’s a common argument.
John meets Mary. Even the Sherlock in his head is intrigued. She’s marginally less irritating than the others, he concedes.
John falls in love with Mary. The Sherlock in his head is concerned. One might even say jealous. Found someone to replace me, have you? Finally listening to your idiot therapist and moving on?
John, on his way to propose, shakes his head. I’m allowed to love two people, you know. For a genius, sometimes you can be incredibly stupid. And I don’t- that whole lots of ways to love someone thing- I love her differently.
This is a sex thing isn’t it.
Sometimes John marvels at how accurate his mind’s re-creation of the real Sherlock can be. Yes, it’s a sex thing.
Well, that’s fine then. Not my area. Proceed.
Thank you for your permission, John thinks sarcastically at the Sherlock in his head.
John proposes to Mary. She says yes. They go on a walk. The conversation turns to Sherlock, as it often does. Mary is the first woman not to mind.
She holds John’s hand as they stop to rest on a park bench. “I would’ve liked for him to be in the wedding. He could’ve played the violin for our first dance.”
John laughs. “He would’ve hated it. So much sentiment in one place.”
I resent that! I would’ve done it for you, the Sherlock in his head interjects.
“He would’ve done it for you,” Mary replies, her voice full of certainty.
“You sound awfully sure for never having met the man.”
“He loved you, John. He would’ve done it.”
John opens his mouth. Shuts it. Tries to think of something to say. He can’t, but of course even in his head Sherlock is never out of words. Now that’s proper deduction. She can stay, John.
Mary pats his cheek. Kisses him. “After all this time John, all your stories...I think it’s fairly obvious he loved you. And you love him. There’s no shame in it, you know.”
John finally finds his voice. It cracks. “Loved. You can’t love someone if they’re dead.”
Mary snorts derisively. “John Watson! If I die before you do and you stop loving me, I promise I will come back and haunt your arse.”
John kisses her. Laughs. Loves her. “That’s fair. So, do you fancy a summer wedding?”
Summer? Really John? It’s just so terribly cliche.
Arse. I wish you could be there, John thinks, even though he knows he’s talking to himself. It’s still true.
Sentiment, John, the Sherlock in his head chides. Though I suppose I can admit I wish I could be there as well. There, you’ve finally infected me. I hope you’re happy.
John grips Mary’s hand tighter. Lets the sadness come. And the joy.