After Life is my chronicling of John's descent into grief after Reichenbach.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and John aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to feed them and take them for walks and give them back when I'm done.

This story was inspired by filming photographs from The Reichenbach Fall, however, since I began writing this before FALL aired, it is not BBC!canon-compliant.

Content warning: blood, death, falling, disturbing dreams.

The first night After, John walks down Baker Street at 4 a.m. The rain, which began the day before and not stopped since, is now a fine mist, glinting in the streetlights like shards of amber. Underneath the sound of the rain is the scraping of his shoes against the pavement, the faint rush of cars streets away.

He trudges step by step, his leg throbbing and raw, his hair matted and dark from the rain and blood that soak him to the skin. Only a few lights are on in the neighboring flats, this time when the old night feels too late and the new day too early. He looks up at their empty flat window, the hollow blackness behind the yellowed curtains.

He fingers in his pocket for keys, pushes open their door, the knocker banging against the dark wood as he closes it. In the hallway, he strips off his black field jacket, hanging it haphazardly in the closet. The seventeen steps creak under him, feeling the strange weight of only a single set of feet.

John stops at their door, the door he first encountered years Before, when he climbed the stairs like a man twice his age. The knob is a cold ball of brass in his palm as he slowly turns it.

The flat is dark, save for thin streams of streetlight casting the room in a sickly yellow glow. The air smells of dust, slightly moldy books, faint hints of sulfur from one of (his) experiments. The room feels odd to John, the edges of the place brittle and alien, as if the furniture and books belonged somewhere else, with someone else.

Leaving the lights off, he feels his way to the mantel via muscle memory, well-honed from sneaking around combat zones and avoiding (his) odd chemistry experiments. He drops his keys into the small bowl next to (his) skull, and pulls his Browning from the small of his back, setting it beside the bones.

His fingers quiver as he peels off his blood-stained, oatmeal jumper, his ragged, red-caked fingernails catching in the thick woolen knit. He kicks away his shoes and socks, leaving them in a crooked heap next to his clothing.

Eyes half-closed, John wanders to the couch, still in his jeans, crawling slowly on top of the cushions, curling his tired limbs around himself, as if protecting his vital organs from attack. His bones ache, his breath wet and tired, a thin, thready sound in the quiet flat.

He stares down at his empty hands, still smeared with (his) blood. His body feels hollow, as if someone had scraped it out with their fingernails. The pain inside throbs with a vaporous fire, blazing flashes of memory: (his) silver eyes, blown wide and still; (his) flailing arms against the sky; (his) cold skin under his fingers; and he shuts his eyes against the terrible brightness—

(no no no it hurts too much I can't please God let me keep this hollow empty feeling it's clean and cool inside I can't feel this now God)

He shivers, his teeth chattering and his skin shaking despite the warmth of the room. Slung over the back of the sofa is (his) blue dressing gown, carelessly draped over the leather cushions. He wraps the smooth silk over his trembling body, the fabric cocooning him in soft folds, the sweet smell of (his) almond shampoo enveloping him. One of the sleeves hangs down over his shoulder, spooning around his arm, and he grasps the edge with his fingers, clutching it tight to his chest, as if holding an invisible hand.

(please God let me forget)

For the first time in two days, he sleeps.

He sinks like a stone upon the water, a rough rock suddenly flung by a strong and vicious hand. He doesn't remember how long he falls.

He is all stupid, clumsy, dead weight, collapsing in the silt and sand, his jagged edges shooting up from the muck. His eyes and mouth are open, screaming, burning.

Above him, a murky figure, dark and pale all at once. He claws at the shape on the other side, fracturing it into a million vibrating pieces. No matter what he does, he cannot reach it.

He lets the rapids cover him, and muffle it all.

The weight of the water slowly, slowly plucks away pieces of him, granule by granule, down to the smooth nub of his heart, still beating.

By morning, there is nothing left of him.

For the next three years, every night After, this is all John ever dreams.

AN: The title is taken from the same-titled song by Beth Nielsen Chapman.

Comments posted before December 15, 2011 reflect the first edition of this story. My thanks to the amazing Mirith Griffin for her gracious beta skills and unflagging support during this revision (go read her fics; it's a moral imperative).

Thank you for reading!