"Sherlock!" yelled John Watson as his best friend threw himself off the building. The world blurred. John raced over to the body. A small crow had already started to form.
"Let me through. Let me through! I'm a doctor. I'm a bloody doctor, let me through!" Time slowed. Sherlock lay awkwardly, his soft, dark curls were matted with blood, and his pale eyes were open and blank. The detective breathed no more. John could not stop the tormented shrieking wail that rose up from within him.
Agony. Pain consumed John. Its powerful teeth snapped at John's cracking heart with the hunger of a starving wolf. It licked flames of hellfire throughout John's body. He was enveloped by it, this cruel wanting. Such an ache was unbearable. He could not eat, he could not sleep, and he could not breathe. While the world went on around him, he was drowning in air.
Desperation. John always felt one step away from breaking. He had started up a consistent shake. Trembling as if he was sickened by some unseen chill. And perhaps in a way he was; sickened by the chill of grief. John's insomnia had deepened. Now, he only slept when he collapsed of exhaustion. Even then, his sleep was fitful and did not last long. Nightmares of Sherlock's death hounded him every time he closed his eyes. John soon moved out of 221B, because the no longer handle the memories. Still, on his own, John would find himself wracked with random sobs. That was, until he could cry no more. Then his body would pitch and heave but the tears were not there to shed. Constantly in his mind were his own words, "Please, Sherlock. Give me one more miracle. Just one more. Don't. Be. Dead." John repeated this over and over again like a chant, praying for it to somehow come true.
Regret. Every day, John wished he could see Sherlock just one more time. Though John could not cope with photographs, none were needed. Sherlock's lanky frame, dark curls, and pale eyes, stood as starkly as his baritone voice, genius mind, and intense personality to John. He flatly refused to believe that Sherlock was a fake, or that vanity drove him to take his own life. Sherlock Holmes was as much a genius as he was a mystery. John sat on his sofa and buried his face in his hands. He had always been so nervous, so hesitant, so stupid. Sherlock was dead with no idea of John's feelings for him. John had been fairly certain that he was in love with Sherlock. He still was, if he was being honest with himself. "Get yourself together, John." he murmured restlessly "You're in love with a dead man." Still, he got up and walked over to the window "I love you." he whispered to the stars. Too late, came the silent reply, too late.
Numb. John felt nothing any longer. His grief dulled his senses. A cold wind could not stir him and the rare English warmth only brought about his indifference as opposed to his depression. Rain could not soak him. John saw the flowers, but their colour and fragrance meant nothing. He could not see how anything mattered. He had recently moved back into 221B to help Mrs. Hudson. The subject of Sherlock was not breached, nor was it tolerated. It still contained far too much pain for them both. They had put all of Sherlock's belongings into what was his bedroom and the room was never entered or acknowledged. Now, John sat on a date with a young woman, just break the monotony of life. Mary Morstan, was her name? She babbled on about something or other, John wasn't really paying attention. After Sherlock, she seemed so trivial.
"I thought it was amazing, didn't you John?" she said after one of her stories.
"Yes, yes." said John absently. "I must be going; I need to help Mrs. Hudson make dinner." Mary nodded
"Should I come by your place tomorrow morning, then? I can show you that little café I was talking about."
"Sure, yeah." said John was already picking up his coat to leave.
Ache. John could not take Sherlock from his mind. As he walked home from the date, Mary's face was blurred. He could barely remember her surname. Sherlock was it. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. All the things John never got a chance to say, all the love they never got a chance to have. It turned into a dull aching pain inside John's stomach. It had been so long and still John could believe Sherlock was really gone. John fumbled with the keys to 221B. When he got in, Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found, as he expected. She had gone to stay with her sister for a few days. John took off his coat and noticed that the door to his room was ajar. John had shut it this morning before he left, so he went forward to investigate. He entered slowly and was mat with a sight he thought he would never see again. Sherlock Holmes sat on his bed.
Fear. Had John finally gone crazy? How could that be Sherlock? John had watched him die. He had seen Sherlock's corpse. But thee he was surveying John with that calculated intelligence that John had grown to love. Moving on instinct alone, John reached out a hand to swipe at Sherlock's frame. Sherlock extended a hand and allowed John to touch him and make sure he was real. The sudden contact sent shivers up John's spine. The world came into intense focus. Feelings, colours, sounds, all there and very real.
Rage. How could he? How could he? Leave John to suffer all this time and not send a note? A sign? Nothing. There was nothing. John's fits shot out and slammed into Sherlock's chest.
"How could you leave me? How could you scare me like that? It's been months, Sherlock! I thought I was your friend!" The rage that fueled John's words left him when he saw Sherlock's eyes fill with tears.
"I'm sorry, John I…" Sherlock's voice cracked and he paused to gather himself. "If I didn't, Moriarty's men would have shot you, I..." Tears streamed down John's cheeks. That ache in his stomach was renewed with ferocity. He strode up to Sherlock and before he could move he found himself enveloped by Sherlock's arms. A hand reached up to cradle John's head to his chest.
"John, I'm so sorry." John felt Sherlock's baritone rumble in his chest. "I love you John. Not as a friend, but as something more." Sherlock slowly leaned backwards to lie them down. Sherlock rolled on to his side and John nuzzled into his chest.
"I love you too, Sherlock." and with that they slept.
Free. The next morning, John and Sherlock woke up late and still in each other's arms. They rose slowly and John went to make tea, while Sherlock meandered around contentedly. The doorbell rang and John went to answer it. His heart sank when he saw Mary.
"Did you just wake up, sleepyhead?" she laughed. "Get dressed so we can go!" she reached out to swat at his shoulder but John was pulled from her reach. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John possessively.
"We mustn't touch what isn't ours. Since you have recently faced tragedy, I will only offer you a piece of advice. Don't look to find your dead husband in an already claimed man. Go." Sherlock's deep voice spoke dangerously softly. He shut the door in your face.
"Thank you," said John "I love you, Sherlock. Make no mistake. You, not her."
"As it bloody well better be." growled Sherlock affectionately. "Now, can I take you to breakfast?" Sherlock laced his fingers through John's. "
"In our clothes from yesterday? And wont people talk?" asked John
"People will always talk. And we're going right this instant. Aren't you hungry?" asked Sherlock. John grinned at him.
"Oh, God yes."
Hey, guys! This is me, Inky, and I am not Steven Moffat, nor am I Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Just using the characters. All rights got to them.