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The dull glow of winter sunlight peaking through John's curtains is what wakes him that morning instead of his alarm. Part of him wonders why he even bothers to set one anymore, he's always up long before it goes off and it just adds the tedious task of dismissing it to his list of things to do that day, not that he ever has much to do anyway.
No, that's a lie, John has a job, he goes out, he even has a few people he's able to vaugley class as friends. He has a life, okay? Sometimes it just feels like he isn't the one living it anymore. Almost as if he's viewing his own experiences in third person, a mere spectator to his own existence.
It's not the first time John's felt like this and selfishly, he thinks he prefers it this way. When he first came back from war there would be whole chunks of time he wouldn't remember, as if he'd gone about his day on autopilot. He'd been too stubborn at the time to admit that ir scared him. Too stubborn to let himself be helped.
In a way, John had spent his existence living for others; he'd served his country, he was a doctor, he solved stupid crimes with-
With...
John had spent his existence living for others. John didn't know how to live for himself. He'd had a therapist after the war, he hadn't opened up to them, preferring to push what he felt to the back of his mind simply so he didn't have to feel it anymore.
His therapist now, said that was part of the problem. He needs to acknowledge his own feelings in order to work through them. John doesn't like his therapist. His therapist tells him he's in denial. His therapist tells him he needs to let himself grieve. His therapist doesn't know what their talking about, he has nothing to grieve. His therapist tells him sherlock is-
Sherlock is...
His therapist tells him to take time to himself, to reflect, to not shut himself away from the world. His therapist told him to have a good Christmas.
John wonders, as he lays in bed, no hint of snow behind the frosted windows, no decorations lining the walls of his house, no presents under the nonexistent tree, what having a good Christmas really means to him anymore.
His alarms sounds, screen flashing bright white, an unpleasant contrast to the dimly lit room. The sound reverberates around his skull and his vidid phone screen strains at his retainer's causing the usual headache he gets in the mornings to intensify instantly. He fumbles with the cancel button before hauling himself out of bed.
He walks into the kitchen, the only room in the house that showed any hints of it being Christmas at all. There was a Calender flicked open to December that hung lopsidely on the wall, the days before the 25th had previously been crossed off in neat black pen. There was also a half eaten box of mince pies tucked away in his scarcely stocked pantry, the two things were the only parts of his house that held any slightest indication to it being the holiday.
Sherlock had never enjoyed Christmas much, John wished he had took the time to ask him why before he left. He suspects it had something to do with his family, his relationship with Mycroft had always been beyond complicated and John suspects it was much the same with his parents. From what Sherlock had said about them (which admittedly wasn't a lot, he didn't talk of them often) they seemed normal engough. John isn't sure if this makes things worse or better, maybe it was both, he guesses he'll never know.
He skips breakfast, as a doctor he really should do better, but food is a lot harder to make without Sherlocks running commentary in the background, quietly chiding his cooking techniques like he could do any better. He used to pretend to tune the man out, or tell Sherlock to shut up, hiding the hint of a smile threatening to cross his face. Strange how you don't notice the comfort someone brings you untill it's gone, John wishes he could download Sherlock's muttering and leave it playing on loop, a constant white noise to John's mundane existence.
He picks up his keys and wraps a downright hideous scarf, that sherlock would have teased him mercisoully for before realising it was his own, around his neck. It no longer smelled like Sherlock but perhaps that was for the best, his absence eats away at John, and the reminder that he was once present does nothing to dull the ache in his chest.
The walk to the graveyard is quiet, but the contrast of his mind against the empty streets is loud enough to drown out the silence. The journey to his grave always hurt the most, his footsteps on the gravel sounded too much like acceptence, John hated it, and he wished with all his heart he could hate Sherlock as well. He wants this cruel joke to end, for Sherlock to come back and tell him he's not crazy, that John was right, that he was never dead.
Dead....
Sherlock was dead.
They say grief hits you like a freight train, John's never been hit by a train before so he can't make an exact comparison of the feelings but he'd like to refute that claim as much as possible. It's more like a carbon monoxide. Maybe that's an odd thing to say but it's the only thing that truly fits.
You don't notice it at first, but it's there. Colourless, oderless, yet it eats away at you slowly. You don't realise, or maybe you do, and just chose to ignore it, maybe the beeping of the detectors you installed had become more like background noise to you, denial blurring the most obvious of warning signs. The silent killer. You don't know it then, but you're already dead.
Dead.
Sherlock is dead.
John throws up on the sidewalk. He can't even find it in himself to be thankful he skipped breakfast, he just keeps on retching as if his heart is trying to claw it's way out of his chest. He can't think. He can't breath. He felt like he was drowning, like his very soul was ridden with water, like a wave of something much more complex than sadness had come crashing down over him.
John doesn't know how long he sat there for. Doesn't even remember when he sat down. His mind, that had been so loud these past months, had gone eerily quiet, the subtle chill of winter sinking into his bones and causing a fatal numbness to spread throughout his entire being.
Words can't describe how it feels to watch somone die and wish it was you being killed instead. Words can't describe how much guilt comes with the fact you didn't wish this sooner. That he hadn't instantly longed to take Sherlocks place. The intensity of Johns grief is something that no person will ever understand, an emotion so complex you cannot even begin to comprend it, something he himself can't even find a name for.
Sherlock would have found a name for, use a ridulcaly long and fancy word, like the walking dictionary he is. Was. Past tesne. Because he was gone, Sherlock was gone and he was never coming back.
He kept waiting for the anger to hit. He wanted with all his heart to be angry at sherlock for being dead, but he wasn't. All he felt was this gut wrenching longing to see him again, and the newly formed thoughts that he never would. It would be easier to be angry, instead he had to come to terms with the fact that part of him is now dreaming to be dead too.
Hours later John found himself sat on the ground again, this time legs pressed against frozen soil as he gazed at his best friends name engraved on the headstone. There were flowers, lots of flowers, Sherlock would have found them tedious. Overly expensive and awfully sentimental, he would say, if I'm dead, giving me a plant that will envently die to isn't going to do much for me is it?
John laughed softly, a sound that quickly became more akin to choking as a small sob escaped his throat. In that moment, John finally allowed himself to cry. He mourned Sherlock and what they could of been if they just had more time. A single second. A single 'I love you'. Just to let Sherlock know. Just to see if he'd say it back.
John likes to think he would, if not in this universe then the next, because there isn't a single lifetime where he doesn't fall for sherlock Holmes, not one. What they had transcends friendship and romance, time and space. He didn't love Sherlock with his heart, he loved him with his soul, and in this world, in this lifetime, that had to be enough.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," John whispered to the gravestone, praying that somehow, where ever sherlock was, he would hear him.
And across the frozen grass, Sherlock Holmes stood and listened. Hiding in plain sight as he replied soflty under his breath,
"Merry Christmas John".