Just Johnlock- The Big Book of One Shots

Gone But Already Forgotten

It wasn't so much the disappearance that struck into the heart of John Watson. It wasn't the fact that Sherlock was gone, more so the realization that he had never been here at all. It seemed as though the candle lit services and the memorials in the hallways served as nothing more than cruel reminders that no one knew the boy who had gone missing, and no one had bothered to accept his existence until after they were deprived of it. It was the empty desk in the front of the classroom and the empty chair in the corner of the lunch room that always haunted John as he stared at it from afar. He had no excuse to ever have known the boy, they were in different grades and entirely different social groups, and yet it was a feeling of undeniable guilt that crushed him every time he put his mind to what might've happened to that poor Sherlock Holmes. He had gone missing more than a week ago, and yet no trace or clue has been found as to where he might have gotten to. Some say that he had run away, others say that he was kidnapped, and some, the more brutal kids in the hallways, claim that he had been killed and his body hidden expertly. John doubted the latter; however it was always a possibility, an unnerving possibility, that somewhere, buried in an oversized plastic bag, was the body of the boy no one bothered to notice. John never saw him talking to anyone, he never saw him making any attempt at befriending another human being, and yet it seemed almost wrong to waste such a boy, such a beautiful boy, to a life of social seclusion. John didn't feel at all guilty for admitting his slight attraction to Sherlock Holmes, and now more than ever he lay awake at night, dreading his choice of never admitting his feelings for him. However nothing could be done about it, nothing that could be perceived normal in the eyes of his judgmental peers. John was supposed to be popular, he was supposed to go out with blonde cheerleaders like Mary Morstan, drink underage, drive fast cars, and never do his homework. He wasn't supposed to tap his pencil upon his desk while he mindlessly stared at the back of Sherlock's curly head, admiring the way his raven black curls gleamed from the artificial light overhead. And yet it was something of a guilty pleasure, just knowing that Sherlock Holmes shared the same room as he did while they were taking notes and listening to their teacher drone on and on about things that will have no impact on their lives whatsoever. And now he was gone. What might've become of their relationship was entirely exhausted now that Sherlock's presence in his life was replaced with nothing but a feeling of immeasurable regret, and John was left wondering what might have happened to the unfortunate soul might he have had a companion before he was taken. Certainly any possibility of running away would be implausible, because John might've given him something to stay for. Maybe that was where he went, on, away, anywhere but this desolate town with none but scowling, judgmental faces. Or maybe he had been taken. He always had been a scrawny kid, unable, perhaps, to fight against attackers who had driven up in a white van. However right now the question wasn't how he left, it was where he was now, was he alive or dead? Suffering, scared, hungry? Was his thin body trembling in the darkened corners of a damp basement, listening to the deep voices of men above, making an arrangement to get him sold? Or was he not listening, not trembling, not moving at all? Was his body slowly decaying with chains wrapped around his white ankles, keeping him anchored to the bottom of the calm lake, while unknowing families rowed their little boats only twenty feet above? John couldn't bear to think about it, the pain that he must be in, the terror that was forming an immovable lump in his throat. But what could John do? What could he only do? Attend the services, light a candle and pray for Sherlock's safe return? Add pictures to the shrine that was now being taped onto his unused locker? He certainly couldn't do his own investigating, lest he get taken in the process, yet it felt wrong, it felt dreadfully inappropriate to try to go on with his life knowing that Sherlock's life had been stolen from him. It was hard to smile, knowing that Sherlock's face was plastered with a frown, with tears streaming down his dirty cheeks, shivering, whimpering, aching... It seemed to be no use to try to do anything except wait, and yet that seemed to be the only thing John couldn't make himself do. Of course he couldn't express his worries or his concerns to his friends; they'll insist that he was crazy for even letting his thoughts wander in the direction of Sherlock Holmes. Surely they've never taken notice of the boy and had expected John to do the same, to be just as careless as they were. So what would they care that John was feeling guilty? They've undoubtedly forgotten about the whole ordeal in the midst of the obsession of the next football game coming up. In some ways John felt as alone as Sherlock while his mind wandered away towards the hole that had been carved into his heart alone, knowing that he was the only one here who actually gave a care to where Sherlock was and whether or not he was alive. It would seem, however, that Sherlock's disappearance had only ensured his forgotten name, and despite the sympathetic onlookers who knew nothing of who he was and who he could grow to be, he had been gone long before he was taken.
A/N: just a little thing I wrote up for an Instagram contest, hope you like it :)