The Days After

Memories, Hope, and Newspapers

"I tried. I really did. I tried to divorce myself from my emotions...like he did. But it wasn't any use. I tried to carry on with life and not think about him, but he always seems to be the first thing that pops up in this torturous mind of mine. I tried to stop the tears. I tried to muffle the sobs. I tried to hold back the screams and shouts. But.....it wasn't any use. It wasn't worth it because every time I tried, I failed. I would still end up in the same position and state every time. A shattered man curled up into a ball in the dark leather chair of Sherlock, breathing in his ever fading scent, sobbing hopelessly, just hoping for him to come back. But that will never happen. "

.............................................................

John closes his lap top, sets it on the desk behind him, and stares at his empty chair. He had been curled up in Sherlock's chair again. Salty tears streaming down his cheeks. His hair has begun to lose its brownish blond color and is beginning to get streaks of light grey from the stress of Sherlock's death. His hair has not been trimmed and falls over his top eye lids slightly, curling up a bit like a Hobbit's hair would. John runs his small hands through his untrimmed, unwashed hair and sighs deeply. His deep blue eyes continue to stare at the chair in front of him. His eyes had lost their shine and have just been red from crying all the time recently. John just stares, letting his mind wander as memories of Sherlock flood his mind....

Sherlock and John had just caught the geek that pulled off the superhero scandal in the Geek Interpreter. John and Sherlock had been dressed in all black suits, disguised as robbers so they could solve the case. After sending a quick text to let Lestrade know of the closed case, Sherlock looked up at the criminal, and then John who had a gun pointed at him, and smirked.

"What?" John said.

"Oh. Nothing. Just that you said you looked ridiculous in the black suit, but... I think it suits you quite well." Sherlock gave John a small smile. John was taken back by the compliment and stammered out,

"Why..uh..why thank you, Sherlock. And uh...not bad yourself either."

John smiled. John noticed Sherlock's famous blue scarf missing from his neck.

"You know....if you kept on that bloody scarf of yours."

"What? You like that scarf?"

"Why..yes. Very much. You should continue wearing it with things...it looks good on you. Very good."

Sherlock smirks and looks at John through the corners of his eyes, pulling up his coat collar, making him look all mysterious and quite handsome.

"I know."

John smiles and turns his attention now to the bright lights of the entering police cars............

John slowly opens his eyes to the bright streaming light that filters through the windows. He looks down at his used watch to see that it was already 1 in the afternoon. He had fallen asleep yesterday at around 5pm and slept all this time! John grumbles to himself and rubs his eyes. John slowly pushes up from Sherlock's chair and makes his way to the kitchen, turning on the kettle as well as the coffee machine. John makes himself a nice cuppa. As well as a cup of coffee. Black. Two sugars. Just how He likes it. John walks over to his own chair and sits back down, setting the cup of coffee next to Sherlock's chair and his own cuppa next to his chair. John grabs the paper sitting on the table next to him and begins to silently read it.

It is the same paper every time. The Sun with headlines "Fake Genius Commits Suicide." John reads this. Looks up to once again see his friend's chair empty, and then turns his head towards the door to hopefully see Sherlock there. He isn't. John looks down at the now almost cold cup of coffee meant for Sherlock. He stares with longing. Longing for Sherlock to come. And not be dead. He keeps "forgetting" that hes dead. I mean, how could he not forget, but John keeps thinking that Sherlock will just walk through the doors one day and say in that deep baritone voice of his "Im not dead! Lets go catch a murderer!" But no.

John clenches his fists in frustration and grabs the now cold cup of coffee. John screams and throws the cup down, crashing it into the ground, shattering ceramic everywhere. John crumples to the ground in a heap, moaning in sorrow and newly formed tears racing down his tear stained face. John shakily pulls out his gun from his right side of his jeans. He slowly puts his hands up to his head, one hand caught in his messy hair, and the other, holding a gun, pressed up to his forehead. John sobs,

"You told me once that you weren't a hero, Sherlock. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so... there. I was and am so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Can you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this.........but you cant seem to do that." John takes a deep, shaky breath, "So if you cant come back here to me, Sherlock. Then I will just have to go there to you."

A gunshot rang through the distilled air.