Haunting

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I tried to wash you away,
but you just won't leave.

None of it had really hit John until today. The weight of everything. The funeral was today. He was supposed to be in full mourning, but that didn't make sense, Sherlock wasn't dead. This was just someone's funeral, not Sherlock's. The strangest thing was that John could see the minister's lips moving, as if he were speaking, but yet all he heard was a dull rumbling noise. Everything seemed so distant and drowned out, as if underwater. He came home from the service, but he didn't know what to feel. His chest still felt so tight, and he felt tears in his eyes, but he didn't understand why. Sherlock wasn't dead. Nothing had gone wrong. Why was he feeling this sadness when nothing had happened?

•

John was still on autopilot. It had been nearly one month since... well, let's just say he preferred not to think that day even happened. Sherlock was merely on holiday. That was all.

John kept the house clean, but he did not wash the sheets. He did not wash any of Sherlock's clothes. He cooked for two every night, because Sherlock was coming home. When he didn't, he deduced that Sherlock was merely late and would be back the next day.
But somehow--somehow some part of John knew. Sherlock was gone.

Today was a bad day. Today John had gone into town, and he'd felt the tremors in his leg. He heard distant gunshots, he heard screaming and pleas to be helped--to be saved. He felt as the pavement dug into the skin of his knees as his leg gave out. Today he saw Sherlock's body. Today he could smell the iron and copper scent of blood. Today he watched his best friend and lover die again.

Today--today John broke.

Somehow, he'd made it home. He remembered now. He couldn't deny it this time. His leg still trembled and he could feel this terrible ache in his chest, like he'd been shot. The wound wasn't clean, it was torn and jagged, and the bullet still rested, embedded in his heart. He closed the door, sliding down its slatted panel and to the floor.

Sherlock.

Perfect, wonderful, clever, beautiful Sherlock, was dead.

John felt like he could explode. He felt like he would just fade away, burned up by the pain.

He had no safe place anymore. His everything was gone.

It was now that he felt the full weight of what had happened. He'd been floating through life, ignoring what had happened. He'd been in shock and denial for a month, a whole month. He didn't wash the sheets, subconsciously not wanting to get rid of Sherlock's scent. He didn't wash his laundry, not wanting to lose him that much more, he made dinner every night for two people. He expected Sherlock to come home. He expected everything to be fine.

He was living a lie for a month, silently forcing himself to believe Sherlock still lived--breathed.

John's vision grew dark. The sting of his knees didn't bother him. He hadn't even cleaned the wounds yet, he just sank, looking about the flat emptily. There was nothing for him now. He had nothing and no one.

Everything he lived for now, was gone. And the screams still rang in his ears, and that sickening sound--oh, oh God, not that. He could hear that deafening and terrible sound. He felt his stomach lurch, and his whole body tense. Unwillingly, he lost his lunch to the hardwood floor.

Now, he laid, sick, grieving and alone in an empty flat.

Sherlock was gone.

Everything was ruined, and nothing would be the same.

The world John knew came crashing down around him, and he could not stop it.