John Watson is Strong

John Watson was strong. He was a soldier and a doctor and physically, he could hold his own. He was strong mentally. He had survived the torture in Afghanistan, and while it had taken a toll on him, he had managed to push through and survive it. So when the day came that Sherlock jumped and John raced to his side, he knew he couldn't break. He had to remain strong for Mrs. Hudson, their landlady who was more than just their landlady. She acted like their mother, constantly checking in on them when they were out of sorts and taking care of them, though she constantly said that she was "your landlady, not your housekeeper." John knew she was anything but delicate, she had lived with Sherlock and had to adapt to that, but she seemed to age years in the weeks following Sherlock's death. She turned into an old lady, frail and delicate before John's eyes, and he watched as she broke down yet again on the staircase in front of their flat. He made her a cuppa and sat with her on the top step, his hand on her shoulder trying to soothe her.

"But Sherlock.... I just don't understand."

" No one understands Sherlock. No one ever did, no one ever will. But that's what makes him so untainted in our minds."

Mrs. Hudson looked up at him with large watery eyes and when she spoke again, her voice cracked with emotion.

"I know Sherlock." Not knew him, know. "He didn't do it. He didn't do what they're saying he did."

Hearing Mrs. Hudson battle on behalf of Sherlock made John's throat tight and a sharp pain speared him through the heart. He said nothing else to her, but his silence was enough to convey his agreement.

On the day of the funeral, John and Mrs. Hudson stepped out of 221 Baker St. to find a taxi waiting for them, the figure of Mycroft Holmes leaning against the door, ever present umbrella in his hand. His face was composed and emotionless, but he met John's eyes for a brief moment and John saw the raw pain in them. Mycroft opened the door silently for them to slide in and shut the door.

The ride was tense in John's perspective, at least for him. Mrs. Hudson spent the ride wiping away the tears that were falling not quite silently down her face, her small frame shaking, and looking out the window at the grey sky that mirrored John's subconscious. Mycroft sat on the other side of him, his hands wrapped around the base of the umbrella. He stared aimlessly at the floor of the taxi, not making a noise until the taxi rolled to a stop and they had to get out.

Mrs. Hudson started shuffling down large stone walk way, but John and Mycroft remained standing overlooking the sloping hills filled with graves. Mycroft broke the silence first.

"John, I want you to know how truly sorry I am for this. For all of this that has happened." John stayed silent, not looking at him so Mycroft continued. "I want you to know I feel responsible for everything that has happened."

At this John turned and looked at him, amazement and disgust on his face. "Well of course you feel responsible for the destruction of your brother; you're the one who caused it to happen."

Mycroft hung his head in what John suspected was shame. When he spoke again, it was in the form of a shaky whisper. "John, I understand you're upset and in pain, but if you could please-"

John erupted at that. "Please what Mycroft? Please forgive you? Please not judge you? Look! Look down there" he pointed down the hill where a small assembly of people clothed in black stood around a gaping hole in the ground making small talk to each other. "Do you know what those people are here for? YOUR BROTHER IS LYING DEAD IN A COFFIN, AND YOU'RE ESSENTIALLY THE PERSON WHO PUT HIM THERE." John knew he needed to get away before he caused a scene. Or punched Mycroft in the face, whichever cane first.

But he didn't leave, he stood in the same spot shaking from anger and hurt and sadness and pain and waited for Mycroft to deny everything. But when Mycroft lifted his face, John's anguish dissipated. Tears were running down Mycroft's face and he was shaking. John sighed and lost all the fight. He rubbed his face roughly with his hands and then put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, unsure of how to go about anything anymore. Mycroft said nothing more but turned his head into John's arm and sobbed, with John awkwardly holding him.

The funeral was small, simple yet elegant. John wasn't sure if that's what Sherlock would have really wanted, but he had no say in the matter. All he could do was stand stone-faced with Mrs. Hudson gripping his arm and sobbing and watched as his best friend was lowered into the ground. Closed casket of course. Mycroft wouldn't let anyone see the way Sherlock's head had been bashed in by the fall.

John was taken away from the funeral by the image and back to the moments after he screamed no into the phone. He watched the dark figure fall gracefully from the building, almost like an angel being pushed but unable to unfurl his wings in time. Even from as far away as he was he could hear the sickening crunch as Sherlock's body impacted with the ground. A moment or so later, John's entire world burst into flames and shattered.

Back at the funeral he shut his eyes tightly, the image of the blood that had seeped into the grey concrete permanently etched into his mind. No matter what happened to John, he would always be haunted by those memories.

Sherlock's body was lowered into the ground and after a while, people drifted off. John payed them no attention, didn't notice Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson leave with Molly and Lestrade, didn't notice that he was the only one that remained in front of the freshly covered grave. He atched them adjust the headstone, glassy black that reflected the sun, over his head and he was left alone again. He said nothing, simply placed his hand on the headstone and was overcome with sadness so intense it almost left him on the floor. But he didn't. He breathed deeply and walked away from Sherlock, possibly for forever.

A couple weeks later he revisited Sherlock's grave with Mrs. Hudson. She had finally stopped breaking down, but was undoubtedly not her usual cheery self. They stood together for a while and then Mrs. Hudson turned around and left, leaving John alone for a few minutes.

"You...you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm...there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so...There."

John's voice became thick with emotion as he continued on.

" I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He took in a shaky breath, feeling the tears well up inside of him and threaten to spill out but he swallowed them down instead. He rested his hand on the headstone and nodded sadly. "Okay" he whispered and turned to leave.

"No, you know what? No" he said turning around and coming back. "Damn it Sherlock," he whispered. "Please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be...dead." Another shaky breath. "Would you do that? Just for me?"

He quickly wiped away the tears that had not fallen from his eyes and ran his hand over the carving of Sherlock's name. With a steely resolve he saluted Sherlock's grave, his memory and turned and walked away from his best friend.

As he walked away he mourned, but he did not cry. He did not break down, and he did not shatter. John Watson knows that he will survive this. John Watson knows that despite everything, Sherlock will never be completely lost to him. Because John Watson is strong.