Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; I just like to have fun with them.

Summary/Warnings: Post Reichenbach Fall. John is having difficulty adjusting to the idea of Sherlock's death. He drifts listlessly and eventually decides on texting his dead friend's phone as a means of coping with the dangerous thoughts that eventually enter his mind. J&S. M/M. Suicidal ideations.

A/N: Let me know if it sounds like a story worth pursuing!

Other Side of Nothing

The most exquisite pain, the kind of legend, that endures unto the death of the afflicted individual, is almost never physical in nature. Nay, it is the culmination of strong emotional ties, often thought to be unassailable, which are ripped suddenly from the roots, leaving naught but an emptiness that nothing as yet acknowledged by man has been known to fill. It is born of the spirit, grown in the mind, and yet comes to live in the heart. And so while both the spirit and mind may grieve the loss, it is the heart that truly suffers. Laid bare, it is emptied of all that once made it whole. Connections dissolve, dissipate, and finally fly free of the body as ashes dispersed by the lightest of breezes. The same could be said of the owner of the heart, feeling adrift in a world that moves on without them.

How to survive then? There are many opinions on this subject alone, but in the end it is a very personal and private decision; though time is, some will say, the best means. But some method must eventually be chosen. Some course of action to stem the tide of self-destructive habits that may result of such loss. And thus, John Watson did find himself staring down at his best friend's grave, trying to summon the words he needed to have said while the other man still lived. He was at the tipping point, not having actually cried yet. He had been in shock the day of the fall, and ever since then if truth be told. Only today, as he had approached the solemn little plot with Mrs. Hudson, had he begun to feel the engulfing darkness that lapped at the edges of his mind.

Now, with Mrs. Hudson retreated to the edge of the cemetery, he felt…loss, crushing sadness, and…something else terrifying that had no name. It was like a fear of losing himself with Sherlock's death. It made no sense, but there it was. And here he stood, once again trying to be the brave soldier. And losing. He spoke to his friend, words meant to be heard by living ears. And he asked for a miracle…please, just give him this miracle! But the only reply received was a faint rustling of wind through the leaves and scattered birdsong in the distance. He turned smartly and strode away when it was clear no answer would be forthcoming. And as he crossed the grassy expanse, he comforted himself with thoughts of eventually seeing Sherlock again in the Everafter; thoughts such as these were often used as a salve for the soul's hurt. But in his case, they didn't soothe, not at all. Realizing that he had to wait his whole life to see Sherlock again was numbing with its imposed distance. And suddenly, the rest of his life seemed far too long… Best to think of nothing for now then. Easier said than done, though…

How would it be with no consulting detective dragging him off to midnight adventures and danger? No tall, pale flatmate to leave him completely at a loss by the sheer number of body parts that could fit inside of a quart-sized Ziploc bag? No one to traipse over the coffee table and all of its assorted items? No waking to violin in the early morning hours? His thoughts continued on through many of the detective's other quirky behaviors that most other people (more probably ALL other people) would find abhorrent in a flatmate. But not John. No. He would miss them. Every one of them. Even finding himself woken at two in the morning to discover his foot in Sherlock's hands as the other man clipped his toenails and collected them, stating that there weren't enough of his own to provide a solid comparison for one of his various experiments. Yes, he'd even miss that.

The ride back to Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson was a blip on his memory. He was in the cemetery one moment, then home in the next, then standing in the empty flat. His heart beat a horrible cadence. Alone. Alone. ALONE. And he felt it coming. Finally. There had almost been tears at the graveside. But here and now, they were finally going to make an appearance. It was almost as a sense of foreboding that they approached him. And he prepared himself accordingly. First sitting in his chair, the better to view Sherlock's empty one. Second, breathing deeply in anticipation. He felt ready to face this. Steady. But as the first blurring of his vision came on, and the initial sob shook him, he suddenly needed something to hold on to. And so he slid down and forward onto his knees in front of Sherlock's chair, placing his hands to either side of it, stroking the material as if it belonged to something else, someone else.

Tears ran in rivulets from eyes that had seen too much. Closing them did nothing but replay the moment of loss over and over. Seeking a flaw. Seeking a lie. Seeking hope. Finding none. And he stayed in this position for a long while, far past when the tears ran dry, and his vision stopped seeing the flat in front of him. He refocused his mind on better times. Times before the fall. And his eyes began to perceive only times past, running through the streets of London in pursuit of various people and items. Lengthy discussions on the merit of anything from genetics to styrofoam containers made him smile. For a short time anyway. Reality was slow to return, but it did, stealing away all of the regained joy of his reminiscences.

He sat up straight, with a sharp intake of breath, realizing just how pathetic he was at this moment. How did Sherlock ever do it? Subdue emotions? Sentiment? Consciously, John understood that his friend did register emotions; he simply didn't express them as everyone else did. But John found himself envious of his friend's dispassionate methods; wishing for his own machine-like persona. So much easier than this state he had been reduced to. Small. Weak. Hurting. And for no clear reasoning!

Sherlock would never have done this, this, thing had he not been forced to. The problem was that there was no way to discern the events that had taken place on that rooftop. Blood that didn't belong to the consulting detective had been found, but it had no hits in the police databank as to who the owner was. Nothing about that scenario made much sense. And that, THAT, was the crux of the matter. Surely there was no way that Sherlock had ever doubted that John believed in him? He had thought he'd made that perfectly clear to the other man prior to their earlier attempted arrest. But it dug in him that his last real conversation with the dark haired man had been an argument. And then when they spoke again… He replayed that conversation over and over in his head. Had Sherlock been trying to tell him something? Had it really just been his "suicide note" as the other man had stated? Hindsight here was NOT 20/20. It simply led to more and more elaborate explanations and imaginings. And he was sick. Of. It.

The next 3 weeks flew by in a blur. He left the flat maybe twice. The first time to attempt returning to work. The second to hand in the resignation of his position just scant days after returning. The clinic instead gave him a kind of bereavement leave, in case he changed his mind in the next few weeks. He thought it unlikely, but appreciated their kindness. The subject of his meager pension income was solved by Mrs. Hudson, who told John to stay in the flat as long as he liked for a much reduced rent. She couldn't bear parting with him, too, yet, she had cried. John had nodded his thanks and retreated to the flat, where he had moldered for two weeks straight, barely eating. And there was no way to determine whether or not he got enough sleep, as his waking world seemed to blend with his sleeping one.

Each day began the same. John looked over at the empty chair across from him…for hours. Thinking of the fall and all of the events leading up to it, seeking, searching, failing. Eventually, he showered. Sometimes, he crossed through the kitchen as if to make tea. But he generally detoured back to the armchair before quite getting there. Then he stared some more, eventually moving to the couch to peer from a different angle. Sometimes he crossed in front of the window and glanced outward, taking no real notice of the life and world passing him by as his little encapsulated bubble continued to sustain him. From the couch, he would try to recreate memories, sometimes closing his eyes, most times not needing to.

He could see them now, as he and Sherlock had returned one day from a case. The way the taller man unraveled his scarf and slung it over the back of the door and then slid silkenly out of his coat. How he strode around the flat going on about further details that no one but he would ever notice or appreciate. But John did. Then, when finally his voice had wound down, he would flop into his chair with a smirky smile and accept a cup of tea from John, who would surreptitiously settle a few biscuits with it, knowing that now was the time to get the thin figure to eat. He was least likely to refuse food just after a case. Sherlock needed keeping. A thankless job at most times, and one that no one in their right mind would accept. But John did.

He would end his couch-side reverie by moving back to the chair and picturing what the future would hold for him. And there he would be stuck until the next morning, his mind blank. No future seemed forthcoming as of yet. And so he washed, rinsed, repeated. Day in and day out. Mrs. Hudson started bringing small finger foods by the third day. Leaving the trays in easy to reach places for him. And for his part, he only noted her presence about half of the time, lost in the remembrances of his own mental prison. She did note, however, that occasionally there were small portions of the food missing, so she chose not to worry overly much yet. He was thinner, and a bit pale and wan, but she expected these things of those in deep grief. Time would tell, she would think to herself. And time…passed.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John found himself one evening returning to the conscious world from a memory of bittersweet laughter. For the first time in a great while, his eyes shown an intelligent perception behind them, a comprehension of time and the world it flowed around and through. He pushed up from his chair, taking in the whole of the room before walking to the door to head for his room. He was just beginning to realize how far gone he had been these weeks after, but he wasn't quite ready to face it. So he chose to change the routine at least by lying in his own bed and actually closing his eyes and sleeping in the conventional manner.

He dressed in loose cotton pajama pants and crawled beneath the covers and sheets. It did feel good to finally lie down to rest. And then he sat up and reached over to where his jeans were casually thrown to the floor, pulling out his mobile to plug into the charger on the bedstand. As he connected the wire, a thought ran through his mind, and he almost dismissed it immediately, setting the phone down on the little table. Then he lay back and stared at it, pondering something over in his mind. But after a minute or so, he seemed to reach the conclusion of some internal struggle, letting out a conciliatory "hmph" as he rolled toward the phone again. He reached his hand out and hovered it over the device, as if still battling within himself. Then he quickly swiped it and turned the face on.

He opened the messages section, gazing at the last texts exchanged between him and Sherlock. He hit the new message command, and the screen popped up, ready, blank, waiting. The cursor blinked on the screen, mocking him with its rhythm. Then he typed in a text quickly, before he could change his mind, and hit send, heart pounding. He blinked. And surprisingly, he felt good. Kind of lighter, actually. As though he had truly been able to communicate something to the person on the other side of nothing. He smiled at the thought, thinking it quite poetic of himself. And then he switched off the light as his message to Sherlock flitted before his eyes.

I still believe in you. –JW

E/N: So, is it interesting in the least? Should I continue? Should I drop it and assume another plotline?