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John Watson had bought a gun three days after Sherlock Holmes had died. He told nobody of the fact and planned to keep it that way. It was left in a drawer for emergencies, in case an emergency was to arrive. For John, almost everyday without Sherlock was an emergency.
John still lived in 221b but had rarely left the flat. Sometimes, he found himself wandering into Sherlock’s room and expecting to find him there. He never did.
Mrs. Hudson would sometimes express her concern for John but John would always dismiss her. She’d always come back with a cup of tea and John would always drink it. He would drink his cup, his eyes wandering to the drawer. He’d figure out what was happening and snap his eyes away. This happened frequently.
Lestrade would sometimes come over and Molly would stop by as well. They’d tell him to get back out in the world but John never did. He’d usually go and sit in Sherlock’s room after they would leave. He’d always talk to the invisible Sherlock there.
He never saw Mycroft anymore. John didn’t know if he wanted to see Mycroft. Maybe as a reassurance that both Holmes brothers weren’t dead. But the lack of Mycroft only aided John’s thoughts that both had been dead for a while.
It was a cold afternoon when John went to go talk to the Sherlock he couldn’t see.
“Molly stopped by again, not that you cared much. You didn’t come out and see her Sherlock. I know being human isn’t for the great Sherlock Holmes but would it kill you to just say hi to her?” John’s voice raised at the last word. He pursed his lips, fully aware of the rise. He left the conversation at that, going to the kitchen to write at the table.
John would still write. Not on his blog but on little scraps of paper. He’d sit himself down in the kitchen, the table cleared of all of Sherlock’s experiments, and write. Sometimes he’d write to Sherlock, sometimes he wouldn’t. If he wrote to Sherlock, he would always mention how the table felt different being cleared of his stuff. How it felt lonelier. Then, he finish and sign it off, placing it next to the knifed letters in the main room.
Today’s paper didn’t mention the lonely table. It only had three sentences before John signed it off. He places it on Sherlock’s chair, the chair not ever being moved since Sherlock had died. John made his way to the drawer, grabbing the gun inside it.
John felt numb. He felt numb as he closed the drawer, numb as he made his way to the center of the floor, numb as he got on his knees, and numb as he pressed the cold barrel of the gun to his temple. He was facing the door.
John heard a bang but he didn’t pull the trigger yet. Or had he and didn’t feel it because he was dead? No, the bang came from the door. There stood Sherlock Holmes in all his glory.
John couldn’t exactly remember what happened next. He knew there was a blur when Sherlock went to him. He knew he felt a hard slap on his hand. He could hear Sherlock yelling at him and grabbing his shoulders. He just didn’t remember what Sherlock said. He just remembered a hug. It didn’t matter who initiated it. All that mattered was that John was in the arms of Sherlock Holmes. Arms that had a pulse to them, a live warmth. John weakly smiled, the numbness slowly washing away.
John didn’t remember what happened to the gun afterwards. Maybe they gave it to Lestrade. He remembered Sherlock reading his note and tearing it up. He remembered that vividly. He also remembered kissing Sherlock a few days after Sherlock came back. He liked that memory.
Sometimes, John would still stare at the empty drawer. Not in any way he had before. He gave no emotion to the drawer, not one. And he made sure to keep it that way. The drawer was now taped shut to make sure it stayed empty, something Sherlock had added. John found it to be a great idea, helping Sherlock tape it. They made a day out of it. They had many more days after that and John was glad.
John Watson purchased a gun because of Sherlock Holmes but had never used the gun because of Sherlock Holmes and he couldn’t have been gladder.