Keeping the Strength to Fight

Chapter 3- John

"GOD DAMMIT!" 

Everyone in the room flicked their eyes at John, not in the least surprised at his random outburst, he'd been doing it a lot recently. 

He was currently sat stiffly in speedy's cafe, the place he always went to after work when he needed to think for a while. 

Unlike peoples expectations of him, he had secured a steady job at bartholemew's hospital after the fall. Sarah had left a while ago, something about family issues, and so he had been promoted to chief consultant, a name he couldn't help but smile at every time he heard it, like he knew something the other doctors didn't. 

Which he did, really. 

But as great as a promotion was, it meant longer hours, so sitting in speedy's in the late afternoon was about as much rest as he got all day. 

He had only ventured up to the roof of bart's once after the fall (the name, he realized, he had begun to use quite a lot in reference to Sherlock's 'suicide') to survey it and find what he could, but all that was left was a dirty and half-worn blood stain. Something that the investigators told him was useless. 

After that, he couldn't bring himself to go back up. 

He took a sip of his coffee, not bothered that it scolded his tongue, and tried to calm his mind down. Recently, the stress had been piling up, and he couldn't work out why.  

Sure, the job was taxing, but it wasn't much more than he was used to. In fact, he would say it was less, the same things happened all day, every day, and consequently, he had begun to find it quite... dull. 

So not the job then. 

He scrunched his eyebrows together and pursed his lips slightly, he would figure it out eventually. 

Abandoning his coffee, he left a small tip before grabbing his coat and striding out of the cafe, back to his apartment for the first time in two days.  

Damn night shifts! 

Jogging up the stairs he finally burst into the room and collapsed into his chair. The room was exactly the same as it was, except for a few bits and pieces which he had tidyed up or put away. All of Sherlock's prized possessions were on show somewhere in the apartment. His violin was on the cabinet near the window, the magnifying glass was sat on the mantlepeice, the equiptment for his experiments was in a box next to the kitchen and his coat and scarf, which he had meticulously cleaned by hand, were hung in their usual spot next to the door. the furniture were in the same positions and his stuff was strewn randomly around the room. On a whim, he lifted his computer onto the arm of the chair and logged on, he didn't bother setting a password anymore. 

Looking at the screen, he felt a sudden wash of melancholy overcome him. The computer, he realized, had been untouched for months. 

Ever since he started reading peoples insensitive comments on his blog, he decided he didn't need to go on it anymore, the only reason he used it in the first place was to type up the investigations. 

He stared at the screen and wondered if people had finally stopped acting tough and just left his blog alone, after all, it wasn't meant to be a place for people to complain and rant about how much they 'hated Sherlock' and how they 'always knew he was a fake'. 

"Pompous buggers..." John muttered, if only they knew... He looked down at the tally on the screen. 

1 fan - 68,703 reads - 45,820 comments.

Looking at the number of fans, john spoke: "Thanks, whoever you are". He clicked on it and found the one fan to have kept themselves anonymous. 

"Good idea, mate." He said, again, to himself. "People would come after you with pitchforks." 

Although saying that, he did feel slightly disappointed that this person didn't have the courage to show their name. 

Taking a breath he scrolled down to the comments, and groaned inwardly when he saw that they were still as crushing as before. 

One comment, however, caught his eye. 

The sender was marked as a fan, the only fan, and the comment read this. 

"Write John. Write. Tell the world. Tell them all what really happened." 

And for some reason, john felt he had to comply. He would be breaking his only promise to Sherlock, but the words struck him somewhere deep. 

So he began to type. 

And as he did, the weight on his shoulders lifted, and once it was posted, he drifted into a sound sleep.