Post Reichenbach Feels = First FanFic
His best friend was dead. He watched it happen. He felt for a pulse himself. He saw the blood and gore. He saw the once intensely intelligent, steel grey eyes go dark and cold. Even seeing this with his own eyes and feeling with his own hands, John Watson could not believe that Sherlock Holmes was dead.
Somewhere down deep within himself, John knew where the ill-fated phone conversation would lead once he saw his friend perched on the roof-top.
John would NEVER believe it. He KNEW Sherlock Holmes, perhaps better than Sherlock himself.
“Just one more miracle, for me. Don’t be dead.”
John reached out, only finding cold stone beneath his fingers. He knew the odds were against him, but he hoped beyond hope that this last request would be fulfilled.
Life went on, slowly but surely. Part of John was a little surprised London did come to a grinding halt without Sherlock Holmes breathing life into it.
It took him a full month to return to Baker Street as a full-time resident. He had come for some of his things here and there. He had tried to spend the night a few times at the beginning, but ended up going to a pub to get away from the quiet. From the loneliness.
Mrs. Hudson would come in and dust and clean up a bit. She and John had decided to leave Sherlock’s equipment in the boxes in his room for the time being. John didn’t want to admit to Mrs. Hudson that he secretly expected the consulting deceptive to come sweeping in someday.
Mycroft made sure the rent was paid and even arranged for a hotel for John until he felt comfortable calling 221B his official residence again. John was grateful, but was still resentful in the hand Mycroft had (even if it was not truly intentional) in Sherlock’s fall.
The papers were ferocious at first. John would tell himself that’s why he was avoiding his flat with a vengeance. Every journalist, news reporter, fans, and even critics were chomping at the bit to get John’s statement on the whole scandal. He completely avoided Baker Street when it was like this. The crowd outside 221B began to dwindle as the days passed by. Three weeks after the fall, there was not a press agent to be found.
John’s life was had found its’ way back to normalcy. He went to work, ate, slept, visited with Mrs. Hudson, and got a weekly check-in from Mycroft (John still had not forgiven him completely, but tolerated the man). John was getting back in the dating scene and had a very promising prospect that evening. A clever woman named, Mary. John had worked up the courage to ask her dinner after a few weeks of flirting.
John emerged from the tube station (gone were the days of zipping about in black cabs) and approached his flat. As soon as he stepped inside the threshold he sensed that something was different. It was familiar, like a favorite smell from childhood long forgotten with passage of time. He heard the sound of a violin. This wasn’t too strange for him. He had heard this sound often enough making his heart leap in his chest. He would ascend the stairs only to realize it was his imagination. As he done for the past year, he brushed it and this strange sensation off as his mind playing tricks on him.
He is gone! Sherlock is GONE! He told himself. It had become his mantra. He had clung to his hope that Sherlock would work his miracle and return for so long. People and circumstances had all but beat it out of him. He was constantly confronted with pain and disappointment. His therapist all but laughed at his confession that he believed Sherlock would come back.
If he were to be honest with himself....he still believed it. It was much easier to pretend and accept what everyone else told him to be true. A coping mechanism, if he were to analyze himself. Eventually this became part of his normal.
He trudged up the stairs, thoughts on his date. What should I wear? Should I really be taking her out? What does she see in me? He barely noticed that the music was getting louder and louder each step he took.
He walked into the flat and, as always, went into the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. He turned to face the sitting room and, for the first time, recognized another presence in the room.
The tall silhouette was outlined by the window he stood in front of. Long and lean with a mess of dark hair. Long limbs flourishing to finish the Bach melody he had been playing. The figure turned to face John. Warm baritone tones met John’s ears with, “My dear, John.”
John stared. Slowly the vision before him (it had to be fiction) started to swirl into a cloud of grey. He tried to take a step, but found his legs were no longer made of bone and muscle, but some sort of soft, jelly-like material. He noticed this mirage had began with a smile, but for some reason its’ features were turning into a look of concern. John was feeling gravity’s force pulling him downward, but was not sure why. He felt thin, but strong fingers grip his arms. He thought he heard his name in that same wonderful voice, but could not be certain as his world slipped into blackness.
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