Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the characters associated with his adventures.

Summary: Spoilers for Reichenbach. Three years passed by; three years of the unrealistic optimism of John Watson. He grew to accept it, just before he found out the truth.

Warnings: Spoilers for Reichenbach.

Word Count: 1,143

A/N: This is my first attempt at angst really, so please let me know what you think.

Denial and Acceptance

27 July 2012

It has gotten worse. It has been three months since the day Sherlock tumbled off the roof Bart's after attempting to convince me he was a fraud. I thought things would get better for me; I thought that perhaps I would be able to move on and forget that Sherlock Holmes was ever a part of my life to begin with and believe that he had been a fake the whole time.

But alas, life is never so simple.

The pain and the limp associated with it has been back since before his funeral was held. Mycroft set the entire thing up. I couldn't bring myself to assist him, for it made the fact that I would never see Sherlock again all the more real, and I couldn't face that truth. Even if I had the opportunity to go back and help him arrange the funeral, I would probably still choose to let Mycroft arrange it. There's just this feeling I have that tells me it's all not real, and my heart refuses to let go of that spark of intuition. I know it's ridiculous to believe that Sherlock managed to survive that fall, but I just. . . I can't bring myself to stop hoping.

22 December 2012

The inkling I have is still strong enough that I can continue to put on a happy front, if only so that if Sherlock does ever return, I will be awaiting him with open arms and an open heart, a smile on my face the entire time. I can feel him out there somewhere.

12 June 2013

Why must I choose to torture myself over something that happened more than a year ago? I don't want to believe it, but all signs point to a giant signs that is flashing, "HE'S NEVER COMING BACK" in my head. I don't know how much longer I can fool myself.

3 Novemeber 2013

Lost. I feel. . . lost. There was a piece of my heart that was taken the day Sherlock died, and the void will never be filled. No amount of alcohol or women or adventure could replace it, because what we had was something deeper than friendship. We understood each other on a level that I have never been able to come close to with any other relationships I have had. We complimented each other perfectly, like we were molds built specifically for one another. . . I will never be able to find that again, because there was only one Sherlock Holmes in the world, and he's gone now. He's never coming back, and I have accepted that. . . No matter how much I wish I didn't have to.

30 January 2014

I got a new job at a local medical center, where I diagnose colds all day long. It's boring, but it pays, and my co-workers are friendly enough.

Sherlock would hate me for accepting such a dull job, but his opinion doesn't matter any longer. . . .

While I may have accepted what happened to him, I don't think I'll ever get over it. I lost my best friend three years ago, and I am still struggling to cope without him. I can't move on. I just wish I could be with him where ever he is now, be it Heaven or Hell, Purgatory or Limbo, or six feet under the damn ground.

I simply cannot carry on this way.

A day after his last post, John sat at Sherlock's old desk, trying in vain to type up his newest blog entry.

'This is pointless. No one reads this shit, and no one cares about how I feel anymore. Poor Mrs. Hudson seems to be the only person remotely interested in speaking with me these days.'

The cursor blinked at the top of the first page, awaiting some sort of movement or idea to bring it to life. John sat with his fingers laced, resting them against his mouth with a solemn, thoughtful expression on his face.

When slow footsteps were heard coming up the stairs to his flat, he didn't turn around, figuring it would be Mrs. Hudson bringing him a cup of tea and some biscuits as she usually did at this time of day.

Instead of hearing the familiar chirp Mrs. Hudson made as she knocked on his door, John only heard the footsteps stop at the entryway to the sitting room.

A deep, familiar voice said, "John" in a breathless tone.

John couldn't believe what he was hearing.

'I must be suffering from auditory hallucinations. It's the only explanation. He's dead. He's not coming back. He's never coming back, John.'

There were more footsteps sounding behind him, slowly creeping closer. The sound stopped directly behind his chair.

The doctor felt a hand drop on his shoulder, hot and heavy and real. Slowly, incredibly so, John turned around in his chair.

Before him stood the man who had changed his life; the man whom he had unknowingly given a piece of his heart to when they met all those years ago.

"John. . . ." Sherlock said, his voice just as deep and beautiful as John remembered.

Sherlock crouched down next to John's chair, reaching a hand to cup his cheek, his fingers wrapping around the back of his head.

They both simply stared at one another for what felt like hours, until Sherlock finally pulled John down to him in an overwhelmingly affectionate hug. The detective pulled him as close as he could, one hand on the back of his head, and the other wrapped around his waist.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock soothed into his ear. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere." He leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to the top of John's head. "I will never make you go through that again. . . I'd rather die than see you in that much pain ever again." Sherlock felt warm wetness dripping down the side of his neck. "I'm so sorry, John. Please forgive me."