Work Text:
John will never finished feeling all there is to about Sherlock. It just spills out of him like an unstoppable force. Life without Sherlock is not felt. It’s seen, muted, through frosted glass and John wants to put his fist through the glass just to feel something fucking anything. Because nothing feels the way life with Sherlock did.
And John doesn’t know how people expect him to get over this. He really doesn’t. He doesn’t speak to anyone, he can’t speak to anyone he’s just so goddamn angry because he had fucking --- years with Sherlock and how can he be expect to just...be without that now?
How do other people do it? Live in this world? He’s so angry at everyone. They never understand and his throat is stripped raw and tight with all the things he wants to scream at ---, Mrs Hudson, his therapist (but never ever does).
Nothing will ever be that way again. Mad and brilliant and full of twists in the story. Life with Sherlock was everything and John can’t even remember who he was before Sherlock happened to him. How can he go back to being that man? He’s too different now. The last few years have changed him too much. Like he’s a different shape now, he can’t figure out how to fit into that life any more.
And he’s sad. and he’s so angry that his best friend -and with it his life- is dead. But mostly he’s tired of carrying around this great gaping terror inside of him. That voice inside, he’s never coming back.
He doesn't know how to function in the face of the future looming grey mundane. Day after day the same.
John is terrified of not feeling the loneliness anymore because that’ll mean he’s lost Sherlock completely. Even as months distance him from the immediacy of watching his best friend die and a year, two years muffles the pain, he clings to it. He doesn’t want that last connection to be gone.
And the sun rises. and life goes on. and the world doesn’t even acknowledge that John’s entire life has been ripped apart. They think, he knows, that he should be getting over it now. Should be moving on. And that's the source of it for John, because there is no moving on from something like Sherlock.
John would rather spend most of his days sleeping but insomnia denies him that. instead he sits on the sofa. watching empty air and living in his memories.
Takes a breath or two, tells himself to get up off the sofa. come on now. got to keep busy. we’re doing ok. we’re doing just fine. tea. we’re going to make tea. worry about everything else after the tea.
He goes to the kitchen and fills the kettle then throws it into the sink and buckles under the rage burning up his lungs because he doesn’t fucking want tea he wants his best friend back! and he can cry and claw at his face, there’s no one here to see him. To see him cursing at Sherlock, pleading with him. Bargaining: anything just come back. Goddamn you Sherlock.