Chapter Text
Oh my, naked eyes
I should have kept you
I sould have tried
I should have been a wiser kind of guy
I miss you
It had been nine days since Sherlock's funeral.
Nine days since John hasn't left the flat.
It had been fifteen days since the Fall.
Fifteen days since Sherlock was dead.
John still wasn't able to understand the extend of it. Of Course he knew what it meant when People died. He was a doctor for god's sake. But still, he hadn't lost so somebody close to him. Not until now, anyway.
He sat in his armchair in 221B and stared holes into the air. The tears had stopped falling long ago, now he was just empty.
Everything reminded him of Sherlock. The couch, the cushions, even the wallpaper. His eyes skipped to the desk, coverd in dozends of books and hundreds of papers, somewhere beneath Sherlock's laptop. All those cases that would be left unsolved. All those people to rely on Sherlock to help them. John couldn't even bare to think of them.
Next to the window stood the music stand, overflowing with sheet music, Bach, Beethoven, but also newer ones like Einaudi and Glass, and Sherlock's own works. John knew that Sherlock had composed a piece dedicated to him. It was calm and pieceful, Sherlock had played it whenever John was upset, or couldn't sleep because he was haunted by nightmares once again. Now John would never hear it again. He could of course let someone else play them, hell, he could try to learn an instrument himself, but it just wouldn't be the same, would it?
The violin was properly packed away in it's case, which lay next to the stand. Never again would those thin long fingers create a sound with it, never again would 221B be filled with violin sounds, neither at day nor night. The case would probably be sporting a thick layer of dust in no time, Mrs. Hudson was still trying to keep the flat presentable, and comfortable for John, but as soon as John would move out, he knew her dusting would get less. Not that he would mind, 221B without dust would be like London without Sherlock. But that's the thing. London was without Sherlock, and John was worried if the city could go on without the younger Holmes. Which was bullshit, he knew that, a city as big as London doesn't really care about one inhabitant less, but still, for John, Sherlock had been the definition of London. He had shown him so many places, and so many different places of the city, for John there simply was no London without Sherlock.
But he had to move on, he knew that, and so did Mycroft. He arranged a job at the clinic and a flat nearby for the upcoming month, John secretly being grateful to get away from 221B. A lot of people had offered him to stay with them, Mike, Greg, Molly, Harry, even Anderson. But he didn't want to be a burden for anyone. But the thought of going back to his army pension flat was dismissed even faster than it appeared. Moving back there would feel like starting all over again, like those two years never happened. But they did happen, and oh, how much had happened!
Chasing criminals through the middle of London had clearly changed John, in a good way. He had always been open, but in his two years with Sherlock, he was able to get a better understanding of the world. And Sherlock had helped him a lot more with his ary past than any therapist could have done in twenty years.
John was grateful. Grateful for getting shot, grateful for meeting Mike in the park, grateful for Mike to introduce him to the mad man. He was grateful for every single day of the past two years he had been with Sherlock Holmes.
But this was now history. There would never be chasing criminals around London again.
John sighed, he was tired. He plugged his headphones in and let his mind wash away with catching piano melodies.
His phone started buzzing the moment he got out of the cab.
"John stay where you are! Just do as I say, please!"
John did as Sherlock said.
"Look up, to the roof top."
"God no." He could barely remember how to breath.
"Sherlock no!" he screamed, but the other one couldn't hear him even though he was still on his mobile.
"The papers were right all along, I invented Moriarty."
"No, Sherlock!"
"I'm a fake."
"I don't believe you." John knew he had to do something, had to say something for Sherlock to stay with him.
"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
"Leave a note when?" Johns voice was trembing.
"Goodbye John."
"NO!" But it was too late. The thin body fell of from the building, coat and scarf fluttering in the wind. Then he heard a thump.
And he started running and screaming and crying all at once. But of course it was too late, he was always to late. His legs turned to jelly and he wasn't able to move. The ground absorbed him, John felt like he was drowning. Somehow, he reached the body. Everywhere was blood. The last thing he saw were those empty eyes, empty of life, empty of everything.
John woke screaming.
"SHERLOCK!" But of course it was too late. Always too late.
Sherlock was dead.
If only he had been a bit faster, if only he hadn't listened to him. Maybe Sherlock would still be alive. Maybe he would be sitting in the chair right in front of him now, sorting through his mind palace. Or he would play John's song, to soothe him.
John blamed himself for Sherlock's death. Deep inside he knew it wasn't his fault, that it was Moriarty's plan that had worked a bit too well. But still, there was this little voice inside his head that kept nagging him about it every damn second.
How often had he reflected on the past weeks to see where things had gone wrong, how often had he tried to figure out what he could have done differently. But he couldn't find anything, and that was probably the worst problem.
John missed Sherlock, every single second. His whole body ached. He missed the sheer presence of the detective, his silly moods, his experiments, he even missed his sulking.
But there was nothing John could do. He only knew that he wouldn't give up, that he would keep on fighting and try to move on.
He owed that to Sherlock.