It has been two days since The Funeral, and John Watson still has not gotten out of bed. This, of course, is an overstatement, as John has in fact gotten out of bed seven times in order to relieve himself, but that is all. He has not eaten, nor has he changed out of the clothes that he wore on that fateful day. Mrs. Hudson has come in five times over the past two days, and each time she asked John if he would like tea, (even though they were out of milk due to his absence) and each time John would briefly glance in her direction and say nothing.
John hardly notices the thirst that now claws at his throat. All he does is lie there. Stares at the ceiling.Thinks about him. Every time John allows his eyes to remain closed for more than a few seconds, the image of his bloody, broken body glows bright and red and vivid against the backs of his eyelids. His tousled hair, matted with gore. Him, lying cold and alone under six feet of dirt.
“Sherlock.”
It is the first word that John has spoken in two days. The name feels strange— foreign. The act of sitting up in bed takes quite a bit of effort, but John decides to take things one step at a time: Now you swing your legs off the bed, John. Now you walk to the kitchen, John. He carries out these actions mechanically, his mind numb from so many hours of thinking of only one thing.
Mrs. Hudson is sitting at the kitchen table when John walks in, and upon seeing him, she clasps her hands together and exclaims, “Thank goodness! I was this close to calling the doctor, Doctor.” John knows that she is trying to cheer him up, but he cannot bring himself to smile even the slightest. He just nods his head once and wobbles to the fridge on shaky legs. After retrieving a container of left over take-out, John sits at the table opposite of Mrs. Hudson, only to realize that he forgot to get a fork. Swearing softly, he makes a move to get up, but Mrs. Hudson stops him.
“I’ve got it,” she says, her tone full of pity, as if she is only upset over John’s missing fork. John knows better. She misses Sherlock as much as he does. John, nodding his thanks, wordlessly takes the fork from Mrs. Hudson’s outstretched hand. She stands there awkwardly for a few moments, folding and unfolding her hands, before bidding John farewell and exiting the flat.
Thick silence engulfs the flat, which causes John to fidget in discomfort, so he leaves his food untouched and goes back to his room. Unable to think of anything else to do, he lies back down, only to pop back up almost immediately.
“You can’t be dead.”
John vaults off the bed, grabs his keys, and rushes out of the door. The drive across town to the cemetery seems unusually short, and after paying the cabbie, John hurries over to Sherlock’s grave. He lowers himself onto the damp earth, which still has that musky smell unique to freshly overturned dirt, and stares at his reflection in the black marble headstone.
“Now, Sherlock, you—,” John starts, but stumbles on his words, unsure of what to say. “I know I’ve already said— I’ve already said this before. But you’ve got to come back. I know you’re out there,” he glances over the top of the headstone, as if expecting to see Sherlock somewhere far off in the distance, laughing as though all of this has been a sick joke. But, of course, he is not there. No one is. John draws his lips into a thin line, lays a hand on the headstone, and says, “I suppose I’ll have to find you, then.”
And so John begins his search, stopping first by Greg Lestrade’s office, only to find that he is out doing “something of serious concern,” as told by the secretary. John goes to all of the places Sherlock might be, and all the places he would not be, and yet he is not in any of those places. This is when John decides that Sherlock might not even be in London anymore. He packs a small bag and begins to travel about, going as far as Cumberland. He comes across a peculiar redheaded girl standing outside a telephone box who says she knows someone who might be able to help him.
“Have you seen a tall man who is too smart for his own good?” John asks her.
“Sort of, though I doubt he is who you’re looking for,” she responds.
“Ah, well, thank you anyway,” he says as he waves goodbye.
Being the resilient man that he is, John keeps searching. And he searches. And searches. And searches some more. He continues searching for many months, only to come to the conclusion that Sherlock is indeed gone for good. Realizing this, John goes to back to the flat and stays there.
***
When John finds himself two months behind in rent, he realizes that it is high time to find work. Though he considers going back to work for Sarah, he recognizes the awkwardness that would accompany the job, so he dismisses the idea.
It has been nine months since The Funeral, and in this lengthy amount of time, he had never bothered to visit Greg Lestrade, even though Greg had tried to see him frequently during the first couple of months. John had none of it however, and had ignored Greg anytime he came to the flat.
John sighs and dials Greg’s number. He picks up on the fourth ring.
Greg: Hullo?
John: Hi…
Greg: John?
John: Could we meet in the pub?
Greg: Of course.
And so the two meet in the pub for the first time since The Funeral. To John, the man who sits across from him seems older, worn down. Greg’s skin appears to sag under the stress of working without his consulting detective. Even his movements are slower. He cringes a lot.
John frowns, fidgeting uncomfortably in the booth. “Greg,” he starts, “I realize this is sudden—”
“Well, yeah. I haven’t seen or heard of you in over nine months,” Greg huffs. “It’s a bit worrisome, you know.”
John laces his fingers together, trying to come up with an excuse. He can’t.
“Honestly, I thought you’d gone and offed yourself,” Greg says. He casts his eyes downward, pretending to have a great interest in the wooden table. “I know you two were close.”
John doesn’t want to hear any of Greg’s pity. He purses his lips and says, “I need a job, Greg.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Silence encases their table. Greg takes to thrumming a rapid beat on the table. John just stares at the ugly beige walls. A waitress in a short skirt walks by their table, and while John might have found himself interested before Sherlock’s death, he could not even bring himself to look twice at her.
Greg notices John’s despondent expression and chuckles. “I’m sure you haven’t had a good shag in a while.” John glares at him. “I’m just saying, it might help you feel better.”
“I don’t want to shag,” John says, taking a shuddering breath. “I just want him back.”
***
