Johnlock One-shots

292.What Happens After John's Death?

Sorry for being so inactive asdfghjkl
I mean-- Look at this!

Everything highlighted I still need to finish. I know I just showed you what sort of things you might see in the future, try and guess what happens in them in the comments. Anyways you guys probably don't care about how I am doing and I don't want to end up venting, so yeah here's another crappy fanfic, yay...
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It's been three weeks. When will the pain go away?

Never. That's when. Pain never goes away. You can get over something, but really, it just stays there with you, until eventually, you'll remember, and curl up and cry and feel worthless.

It's a repeating cycle. You can do everything you do to deal with it…

Draw,

Listen to music,

Move on to another person,

Eat food until you pass out…

You can do anything you want to try and pass on. It'll never really leave you though. Heartbreak is one of the hardest things to get over.

“Go away…” Sherlock whispered, realising his mind was going off on another lecture. He didn't even do half those things, he would never move on to someone else, he hadn't eaten anything purposely for weeks, either. He only ate when he got held down and force fed.

He opened his eyes, curling up tightly on John's chair. He looked up, frowning. He always expected to see John. It didn't matter. He knew John would hate him if he were alive anyways, Sherlock was high again. He closed his eyes, but opened them again when he imagined John.

Everytime he closed his eyes, he saw John's face. He had already cried his heart out the weeks before, so he was just left emotionless, other than the hard pang, pang, pang of guilt and sadness in his chest.

Often, he would find himself making violin songs about John, fantasising about him. He had the walls covered in pictures of John, hundreds of papers, taped or pinned into the wall and connected with a string. He was trying to make theories to explain John's death.

He could believe he was dead, but he didn't want to. Sherlock stood up and stumbled over to his violin. He picked it up and picked up his bow as well. He looked out the window and started to compose a new song, tears rolling down his cheeks, dripping off his cheekbones, falling onto the floor.

He played the violin for hours before setting it down. He ran a hand through his hair and breathed out quietly. “I'm going to go on a case… yeah… a case sounds nice.” He smiled softly, turning around. “J--” he froze. Sherlock frowned and wiped his tears away.

He walked to the door and put on his shoes, sliding the blur robe off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. He picked up his jacket, of course taking notice of the blood on the sleeves and shoulders, where John died in his arms.

“Alright, I love you, I'll see you later, John.” Sherlock said, glancing back. He knew John wasn't there, but he said that just to ease his constant depression.

“Don't die.” It was like John actually said it. Sherlock took in a big breath, letting the words swirl around him and sink in. That's what John always said if Sherlock was leaving without him. He's been saying that after Sherlock almost died. He should've been saying it to himself. He was the one that died.

Sherlock didn't care about his life anymore. According to himself, he was just a broken spirit-- which was the only word he could think of describing it in his constantly drunk/high state-- in a human body.

He walked out and closed the door, stumbling down the steps. Mrs Hudson tried stopping him from going, but he just kept walking.

He got a cab and went to Scotland Yard. He went to a room that had files and started looking through them.

He picked out one, then ran out of the building, his coat fluttering behind him. Some people thought it was weird, but then again, Sherlock was weird.

He went to the flat and sat down. He flipped open the case file and started to read.

Well, if he wasn't high, he would've noticed the case had already been solved. He spent a few hours putting things together, then he got up and went back to the Scotland Yard to tell Lestrade everything.

Half way through explaining, Lestrade took the file from Sherlock. “This was solved eleven years ago, Sherlock. Are you stable right now?” He asked, tilting his head. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, I'm fine, right, John?” He asked, smiling at Lestrade. The room was quiet for a moment, and Sherlock looked around. A pang of sadness hit his heart hard, wrapping a rope of thorns around it. “Oh, Gosh,” Sherlock closed his eyes and leant against the wall, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I'm not okay…”

Lestrade sighed quietly. He didn't know what to do, how to help Sherlock. He never cried-- never, not until John was killed while they were on a case.

“Listen, Sherlock, I don't know what you should do, but try to distract yourself with other things. Get a therapist to talk to, or some sort of buddy you can go to the bar with so you stop getting blackout drunk and passing out in my office. Just do something, and try to forget about John until the memory of him doesn't bother you that much.”

“You don't understand, Lestrade! You don't understand! John was the first person to love me! He was the first one to sleep with and next to me-- he was the first one who actually loved my deductions and didn't tell me I was crazy all the time, he was the first person I've ever loved-- I can't just forget about him!” He screamed in frustration, running out of the building, crying hysterically. He was so high right now he felt like the ground was moving every time he took a step. It made him sick.

He stopped running when he was at the graveyard. He sat down in front of John's grave. “You have to be alive, you have to be alive. I love you!” He cried, putting his forehead on the stone and sobbing hysterically. He heard a car behind him, but he tried to ignore it. He knew it was Mycroft.

His older brother knelt down by him. “I know you miss him, Sherlock. But he's not coming back. He's dead.”

“No..” Sherlock fell to his knees. He pounded on the ground. “No! No! I will not believe it!” He yelled, his tears falling onto the dirt. Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and in response, Sherlock punched his chest, making him fall back. “Stop it! Stop it! I hate you! I hate everyone!”

“You don't hate everyone, Sherlock, you're just going through something you never experienced before.” Mycroft stood up and made his brother stand as well. “Where's your list?”

Sherlock pulled a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Mycroft, who looked at it for a moment before folding it and sliding it into his pocket. “Let's get you home. You'll move on eventually.”

A little hesitant to do so, Sherlock glanced back to John's grave. Seeing 'JOHN WATSON’ in those big golden letters just made his heart flutter with pain, all the memories of the doctor being so happy with Sherlock just made him feel so sad.

Mycroft put Sherlock in the back of his car. He looked down, listening to the 'tap tap tap’ of Mycroft's employee’s phone. He forgot her name. Athena? Angelica? Anthea? Something like that.

He waited to be brought home, then, he went inside and sat in John's chair, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers.

Then, he shut off.