A/N: I've apparently been going on an angsty one-shot kick lately. I've never been one for short stories, but apparently one-shots are different. But I'm rambling. This started out as a lot of my fanfic ideas do, me imagining characters doing things as I fall asleep. No idea where the ending came from, just kind of popped up out of the blue. Anyway, I'll shut up now.
Disclaimer: Take a wild guess what I'm going to say here. *pause* Did you say that none of the characters belong to me, but actually to the BBC? *GASP* No one could be that clever! Though it could just be that guessing is your division...
He turns and looks up. He stands there, on the edge of St. Bart's hospital roof.
What are you doing? He wants to scream.
"Goodbye, John."
NO!
He jumps.
John runs, his legs feeling like he tries to run through custard.
He hits the ground.
NO!
John reaches the sidewalk, drops to his knees by Sherlock's side...
The blood covers his best friend's face. His eyes are fixated open.
No.
Strong hands grab John's shoulders, pulling him back. NO! He won't let them take him away, he's not dead, he can't be... he can't...
Suddenly he stands in a graveyard, a tombstone in front of him. No.
Sherlock Holmes.
He's back on the sidewalk, staring up...
He jumps.
"NO!" The word ripped itself from John's lips. He bolted upright in bed, panting.
He took several deep breaths, trying to stop shaking. He let himself fall back against the pillow again, but doesn't bother trying to fall back asleep.
He glanced at his alarm clock. 3:00 AM. Three full hours before he needed to get up. But he knew he wouldn't be sleeping any more tonight.
John laughed bitterly. With Sherlock, it would be rare if he got a full night's sleep because sleeping interfered with a case, and according to Sherlock, was boring. And now that Sherlock was... He shook his head. He still couldn't get a full night's sleep.
He stared at the ceiling. He never realized how much he missed the violin playing at the odd hours of the morning. Though he'd complain- which Sherlock never listened to to begin with- the violin was usually able to soothe him back to sleep, especially if he'd just had a nightmare about the war.
John wondered if Sherlock had known that.
He shook his head and got out of bed. Might as well get up.
He looked across the room to where his old cane leaned up against the wall. He stared at it a moment, then limped across to it.
He limped out of the room, trying to make the least amount of noise as possible. He didn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson. No sense in them both being up.
He put water in the kettle to make himself a cup of tea. He picked up the cup...
Sherlock hands him the mug. John looks at him, not sure if he should be suspicious. "You don't have to keep apologizing."
The look on Sherlock's face prompts John to accept it. "Thanks." He takes a sip, and wrinkles his nose. He glances up at Sherlock. "Um. I don't take sugar..." Again, the look on Sherlock's face prompts him to do otherwise. He takes another sip. "It's nice. It's good."
John shook his head, trying to clear away the memories that stuck like cobwebs.
He poured the tea and walked to his chair. He hesitated, then walked past the chair. He refused to rearrange any of the furniture, and sitting in his chair meant he had to face an empty one.
He sat down on the sofa instead.
Sherlock flops down on the sofa. "Put that in your blog! Or better still; stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"
The words had hurt then. But now John would have put up with them, he wanted them, if it only meant...
John set the mug of tea down on the table next to the sofa. His hands were trembling so badly he was afraid he'd drop the mug. He covered his face with his hands.
Sherlock. Sherlock, why? Why?
John looked up. His laptop sat across the room. He sighed. Didn't have to worry about putting it away anymore. No one was going to hack into it.
He reached for his cane, and limped across the room. He picked up the laptop and limped back over to the sofa.
John set aside his cane and opened the laptop. He stared at the blank screen for a moment. Memories of his life before... everything. The same blank screen. The same empty life.
The same empty life.
John wanted to scream, at the screen, at the wall, at anything and everyone. He wanted to pound on the keyboard, tell the world that Sherlock... that Sherlock...
John closed his eyes to keep the burning tears in. He took a shuddering breath and typed, He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.
He hit 'post' and slammed the laptop closed.
He covered his face with his hands again. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind, he almost thought he heard a violin playing. Great, now I'm losing it, he thought. Nevertheless, the music relaxed him. He felt almost- not quite- at peace. He sank back against the sofa and sighed, letting a single tear streak down his face. He reached for a blanket folded up on the end of the sofa and pulled it over himself as he lay down. Maybe he could fall asleep...
Sherlock lowered the violin. He looked up at his old flat window from where he stood in the shadows across the street. John had laid down on the sofa now. Sherlock raised the violin and played another song, one he had composed specifically for John, but had never told him.
Once he was certain John would be asleep, he lowered the violin again. He picked up his violin case and set the instrument inside, closing it. He looked up at the flat one last time before walking away.