When A Doctor Loves (A JohnLock Fanfiction), a sherlock fanfic

Have you ever been alone?

Have you ever been so honestly, breathtakingly alone that your whole body feels like it was on fire but numb at the same time?

That's how alone John Watson felt in that moment, as he watched paramedics carry away his only friend, his only love.

Now being an army man, John was never one for much sentiment, but there was no doubt in his mind that he loved Sherlock Holmes with every fiber in his being, down to the last hair on his head. And if there had been more time, he would have told Sherlock how he felt. And if he were the luckiest man to ever exist in the universe, Sherlock would have loved him too.

The funeral was just a blur of black, grey, and rain. John remembered very few things about it. He remembered that Mycroft spoke, talking about how much his dear little brother helped save his country with his wit and intelligence. He remembered seeing Sherlock's parents and actually speaking to them for the first time. He remembered apologizing to them for the loss of their son, and then began to explain what a perfect flat mate he was. But the saddest memory of that funeral was the fact that Sherlock was in a locked casket. Normally this would have been fine, but for John that meant the last memory he would have of Sherlock would be crashed against the pavement and covered in his own blood. It would not be a good way to remember the man he loved.

The next days were the numbest. John sat at home, in his chair. All he did was stare at Sherlock's couch and imagine him sitting there, in his thinking position looking up at the light bulbs to where the artificial light would hit his cheeks bones just right and make his face even more perfect than it had been already. Mrs. Hudson would try to get him to eat, constantly bringing in trays of sweets and tea, but each time John refused. And with each refusal, John became angrier and more violent, until one time was the last, and Mrs. Hudson never bothered him about it again. John's justification for not eating was rational in his mind, he would never eat another meal again without his love.

John went out and bought a gun on the 4th day after the funeral. He didn't really know why he had bought it, but he had already spent the money and he wasn't going back. He took the new gun back to his flat and laid it on the table beside his chair, just staring at it. He would occasionally pick it up, look at the exterior, point the barrel at his eye to look inside, and then place it back down. Nothing more happened until the one-week anniversary of the funeral. On that day John picked up the gun and pointed it at his head. He shut his eyes tight as the hand that was holding the firearm began to quake with either fear or anticipation, most likely a combination of the two. In those moments everything externally around him was deafening silent, but the voices in John's head were yelling. Some were telling him to do it, to pull the trigger and end the pain; but the others were telling him to stop, that Sherlock would not want him to pull the trigger and end his own life even though Sherlock did exactly that (well… not exactly since he jumped off of a building instead). John decided to put the gun down, because he could not let down the only man he had ever loved.

More days passed. Days where John just sat. Sat and stared at the couch. Sat and stared at the couch and the gun. Sat and stared at the couch and the gun and thought about the gun and what it could do and what it could end and how easy it would be. But then he remembered the first and only argument against putting the gun against his head and pulling the trigger. Sherlock would be displeased with him. And John could not have that. So he sat, his body withering away like a leaf in autumn, thinking and thinking. Mycroft was of course keeping close watch on John, especially after he heard of the doctor's recent gun purchase. So naturally he had extra security set up in case his brother's dear friend would actually try to kill himself. But, if only Mycroft knew that John wanted to be more than a friend to Sherlock, he wanted to be Sherlock's world, his life, his love.

Another day of misery; another day of starvation; another day of sitting, watching, thinking. John picked up the gun again, pressing the cold, black barrel to his temple. Mycroft was contacted immediately and he of course sent people to collect John. But John would never understand why they came and talked him into handing over the gun, He would never understand why they made him leave his chair and his flat to go inside a van. He would never understand why Mycroft forced him into a ward until he was "mentally stable" again. He would never understand any of it because he was completely justified in his mind. He was doing this for the man he loved.

A week went by in John's new room of white padding and simplicity. He was lucky that Mycroft was able to give him personal books to read to pass the time. But between all the loud thoughts in his own head, John never had time to read. After a while, John began talking to the thoughts, explaining his own frustrations to thin air, hoping it would make him "stable" enough so that he could go back to his chair and continue his old cycle of staring and thinking without all the white objects of dullness in the way. But one day, as John was talking to himself something blocked one of the white walls from his vision. Confused, John looked up and saw none other than Sherlock Holmes, the man he loved, sitting at the edge of his bed. Greetings were exchanged but every time John brought up Sherlock's death the subject was changed to something else random. And for the first time in almost 6 months, John wasn't numb anymore. He might have even been bold enough to say he was happy. It felt so good to be with Sherlock again, even if they only talked about the dumb and unimportant things in life like what John read and what he ate and what he had dreamed about the night before and how he was feeling in the moment. On this day, the six-month anniversary of Sherlock's funeral, John got the nerve to finally ask Sherlock the question that had been itching at his mind since the first day Sherlock had returned to him.

"Sherlock... how did you do it?" John asked, looking straight into Sherlock's piercing blue eyes.

"Do what?" Sherlock responded.

"Fake your death." John clarified.

"John… I didn't fake my death." Sherlock said giving John a look of pity.

"Of course you did Sherlock… You're standing right here in front of me. How did you not fake your death?" John said.

"You know I'm not real John… I know you're smart enough to have deduced that much." Sherlock said, his voice solemn as he looked at the deflating John.

"But… but you're here…" John said, but even now as he looked at Sherlock he knew that the dead man wasn't there, he was even slightly transparent. John could see the back of the white wall behind his black curls and a small stack of books behind his pale skin. No, Sherlock was dead, this was only what John's mind did to cope. John made his own Sherlock, just for him.

"I'm only here because you want me to be." Sherlock said, "This is all just your hallucinations John… I'm so sorry."

"You're only sorry because it's my mind" John said with a dry chuckle, "The real Sherlock would never apologize for this… but can you answer just one more question, as Sherlock as you can manage?"

"I'll try my best." Sherlock said.

"Did you love me?" John asked. Silence fell over the room like a fog after the four words were spoken, as if even daring the question was punishable by no reply for the length of ten life times over.

"Yes." Sherlock said simply before his figure faded and then disappeared, forever to be tucked away in John Watson's mind. And for the first time in six months, John Watson knew for certain that he was happy.

Now being an army man, John was never one for much sentiment, but there was no doubt in his mind that he loved Sherlock Holmes with every fiber in his being, down to the last hair on his head. And now that John made more time, he told Sherlock how he felt. And he was the luckiest man to ever exist in the universe, because Sherlock loved him too.

The End