Chapter Text
- F. Chopin: Nocturne in c sharp minor
John stood.
It was all he really could do.
He couldn't bring himself to speak or sit. His leg had begun acting up again, and sitting would make it worse.
There were so many people, none comfortable enough to speak with him. Grief was always so intimidating, so John stood.
He stood at the back of his best friend's funeral.
Everything had gotten so quiet.
Somewhere a violin was playing, but he couldn't hear it.
His soul ached to hear the sharp, melancholy notes.
But instead: an excruciating silence.
Mrs. Hudson did most of the speaking, along with Lestrade. Molly was too scared to talk in front of people, as was Anderson. Sergeant Donovan didn't come. Neither did Mycroft, or his parents.
The attendance consisted mostly of faces John didn't recognize.
There were so many people, and if another one looked at him with sad eyes or said "I'm sorry" he knew he would lose his composure.
Ignoring the crowd, John's mind wandered.
The only place it ever wandered was to Sherlock.
God, he wished he could think of anything else.
His head filled with the view of Sherlock on the roof. He was so far away, too far away. The stringed music sliced at his soul.
Sherlock was falling. Oh god. He was falling and there was nothing John could do.
It was his fault.
If John hadn't-
He called him a machine-
The last time they spoke he-
John blinked.
His chest felt heavy, he needed to get out of this crowded room.
He had to-
They knew he-
John pinched the bridge of his nose, covering his face in the process, and glanced around desperately for an exit.
He spotted the doorway to the hall and tries to walk casually with his head down. He didn't want to walk too fast and catch someone's attention, his leg was being a bitch anyways.
To the left down the hallway he found the restroom.
The moment John was alone he broke down.
He grasped at the cold edges of the sink to keep himself from sliding to the floor.
Gripping the smooth ceramic surface, John desperately tried to ground himself.
He was here, he could do this.
He pressed his eyes shut, then blinked, staring down into the empty sink.
Cold. He could hear faint water drip from the faulty faucet.
He could do this, he was here.
Here.
Alone.
He believed Sherlock, if only he could've convinced him to stay.
If only.. why-
Gasping for air, he gave in and allowed himself to drop onto his knees on the tile floor. Leaning against the wall, he put his face into his hands and wept.
Sherlock was falling, plummeting slowly, and god, John couldn't breath in the silence.
Everything was so absent without him. So still.
He didn't know how long he was in the bathroom before someone knocked.
John scrambled to stand and wipe his face. He glanced quickly at his reflection above the sink, his eyes were red.
He opened the door to find Lestrade.
"Hey, uh," Lestrade glanced to the side and cleared his throat, "we're heading to the cemetery here pretty soon."
Oh. Right.
John sniffed.
"I think I'll go over there later, just," he motioned around with his hand, "too many people." He looked down at his shoes.
"Understandable." Lestrade looked down at his own shoes. Neither of them spoke for a moment, what was there to say?
Lestrade broke the silence.
"Well, I'm gonna head out." He glanced up at John. "Let me know if you need me," and patted John's shoulder, "ok?"
John nodded.
"See ya."
Lestrade turned and rejoined the group slowly moving to the exit.
John hesitated, glancing back into the restroom. As much as he didn't want to be surrounded by people, the idea of being alone terrified him.
What was he going to do now?
He was so alone.
So alone without -
He needed air. Fresh air. Was there a different exit?
John really couldn't do this right now. Couldn't handle this.
All he wanted -
If only Sherlock wasn't-
"Hullo!"
When had Mrs. Hudson approached him?
He coughed. "Uh, hi."
Without hesitation she continued stepping towards him and placed her hand on his upper arm, pulling him into a side hug.
"Too many people." She declared.
John nodded. "Mhmm."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Shall we get some fresh air? Maybe wait awhile before heading to the cemetery."
John blinked. "Yes that'd be... lovely."
Still holding his arm, Mrs. Hudson steered John down the hall.
They walked together in silence.
As they stepped into the sun, John's mind began to wander..again.
Here was the last place he wanted to be, all of this was the last thing he could ever imagine having to endure.
Besides one therapy visit, John hadn't left the flat since Sherlock...
He hadn't left his room.
For weeks John had poured himself into research. Sherlock had to be real. Something had to be wrong. Every moment from that day repeated in his mind. He knew what he had eaten for breakfast, that Sherlock hadn't eaten, what he was wearing, everything. Once he began to recall the moments at the hospital: when he yelled at Sherlock, or later standing outside, looking up, he would break.
He could see Sherlock at the edge as if he was standing there now.
And oh god, the fall.
He was falling. Oh god. He was falling and there was nothing John could do.
Impact.
Silence slammed into his ears as a sharp note stopped. After that, things were unclear.
John was speaking, or was he yelling? He didn't know what he was saying. The emptiness was smothering him, absorbing him, drowning him.
Mrs. Hudson had tried to no avail to get John out of his room. He refused to speak to anyone. He couldn't stand to see the apartment empty. Sherlock's empty chair. John never again entered the room they had shared.
He didn't want to be at this church
He just wanted to be okay.
John walked with Mrs. Hudson until they found a bench. They sat there for the rest of the afternoon, Mrs. Hudson silent and John fidgeting with his hands.
Finally she stood.
"I think we should head to the cemetery."
John nodded, and stood to join her.