I Heard You (A Sherlock Fanfiction)

Hai! So basically I love BBC's Sherlock and so I wrote a cute little fanfiction. So enjoy!

I wrote this before series three
Post- Riechenbach
My theory

Car·a·pher·ne·li·a

A broken-heart disease whenever someone leaves you but leaves all their things behind.

-

Some people would be worried watching John Watson sleep, on the nights that he did sleep. He'd toss and turn, throw himself around in bed and call out for someone in his sleep. Someone who would not be returning.

On the streets; when he did gather himself up enough to actually roll out of bed he would walk alone, dine alone and go home to be alone.

His life was full of emptiness and as he sat down on the small leather couch across from his therapist, that's what he thought about.

Oblivion, his entire existance would be lived alone.

"Why today?" She would ask him, often he ignored the question. Not today, today it borhted him.

"Do you want to hear me say it?" He asked emptily.

"Eighteen months since our last appointment"

He thought about it, it had been rather long since he came up to this building and sat in this very room. Somebody had helped him through it, he hadn't needed therapy, he didn't need this.

Cupping his face in his hands, exhausted. "Do you read the papers?" He finally managed.

"Sometimes" she replied politely.

"And you must watch telly, you know why I'm here-"

"What happened John?" she asked, her usual calm voice was laced with curiousity and angst. She knew of course, but the first step to getting better and pulling himself out of whatever state of depression he was in, would be for him to say it.

"Sherlock..." He breathed, hinking about all the memories. The annoying dickwad, the man who thought he was the best thing since Jesus, the man who sat there for weeks on end and shot at the wall when he was bored, who played the violin with such beauty-

His thoughts were interrupted when she spoke again. "You need to get it out" she prodded, attempting to get John to speak.

"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes... Is dead"

Once he had said it, the words tasted bitter in his mouth, Sherlock Holmes was the man who was the most human he'd ever met. He was his best friend, John was alone when he returned and Sherlock had taken him in, saved his life, John returned the favour. But it wasn't enough. Sherlock was dead, and he wasn't coming back.

He collapsed into tears, his head in his hand, sleeves soaked.

He knew what she was going to ask, the medication she had given him when he returned home from the army.

"Have you been taking it?" she asked, clearly referring to the pills. She waited for him to calm down a little.

"No" he sniffled.

"Why not?"

"It's only through my nightmares I get to see him again" he whispered. Tears streaming down his face again.

"Do you think this could have to do with closure? The nightmares I mean."

"What do you mean?" John asked, looking at her for the first time since he broke down.

"The stuff you wanted to say, but didn't" she started, John wanted to hear none of it.

"Yeah" he answered, brutally honest.

"Say it now" she said

Fine, Sherlock you're the closest to a friend I've had since I was young, you're amazing. The way you told me about my sister, I was absolutely amazed, you think you're too good for everyone else, but you're also the humblest man I've ever met, you're arrogant, but kind. You're an annoying dick and you continue to break Molly's heart, take her on a date would you? I'm sick of pretending I don't see you when you're sad, I know you'll just deny it. But I love you Sherlock Homes and even though you don't think you have a heart yours is the biggest one I've ever seen, you're the closest to family I've got. Thank you for everything, I was so alone and I owe you so much.

"No... I can't. I'm sorry." John whimpered, he stood up with shaking legs and walked out onto the chilly London streets.

On the corner, when John found himself not able to walk anymore, he found an empty diner on the side of the street. He chose a table next to the window, looking out onto the dark street, the occasional light from the headlights of the whirring cars, some shops still had their signs on but most were out at this hour.

John Watson had lost himself. He had just realized it now. He was broken beyond repair, he just wanted Sherlock back.

The diner was small, a small shop on the corner. It smelt of coffee and stale cigarette smoke. Something John hadn't smelt in a while.

"It's a 3 patch problem" he recalled Sherlock saying one day in their flat when he was stuck on a case. He smoked when he was stressed and turned to nicorette patches instead. John hadn't returned to the flat in a long while. He couldn't.

"Good evening sir, what can I get for you?" A waitress asked, she was pretty he supposed. Like Molly Hooper but younger. She was too young for John but he often noticed these things now that he wasn't always having to listen to Sherlock drone on. She wore a neat white blouse with a tight black skirt and her brown hair was tyed into a nice, tight pony. Her name tag read Lynne

"Just coffee please, black." He murmured. Lynne nodded, and headed to the back of the empty diner. John stared blankly at the diner's table, nothing special just the typical while Sherlock droned on and on about some case or complained about Lestrade.

When Lynne returned with his coffee in a simple white mug. Again he didn't drink it because it was a little game of Sherlock's. They'd go out and order a drink or food and not touch it, just wait for it to get cold and disgusting. Pay and leave. Just for fun, John never understood Sherlock's sense of humor.

It didn't feel the same without his companion, though. John looked up from the coffee to see the late night diner full of four more people.

An old woman, hardly able to walk drinking a hot beverage, a man who was too large for the small diner stools, a middle aged man with a horrid moustache and a young girl who was drunk out of her mind.

John had once turned to alcohol after Sherlock jumped off of St. Bart's but he could no longer touch the stuff after he began to talk to "Sherlock." he called Sherlock's phone, begging for his return, he'd write letters and mail them to their flat and walk the streets aimlessly.

He glanced out the window and saw a man: dark curls crowned his head, pale faced and blue eyed, he smiled slightly. His eyes rimmed with high cheekbones and near perfect skin.

Sherlock.

"It's not him" John whispered feircely to himself. Sherlock Homes was standing right outside. "It's not him John. You saw the body, attended the funeral" he muttered, angry at himself for believing it.

When "Sherlock" was gone, John quickly paid for thecoffee and left, he decided to go to the flat for the night. He did when he missed his friend, when he began to see him again.

John walked in the door of 221B, Molly Hooper sat on the couch. Typing away at the laptop they shared for work.

"Hello John" she said smiling.

"Hello Molly, how was your day dear?" he asked, she walked to him and wrapped her hands around his torso.

"It was horrid, I kept seeing him. But it's better now, how was yours?" She flashed him a quick, sad smile.

"Same as yours, listen. I'm going to go take a hot shower and probably go to bed"

"Don't you want to eat?" she asked hopefully.

"No, not tonight darling" he kissed her on the forehead and gave her a reassuring hug.

"Alright, I'm going to head home then," she nodded, slipping on her shoes. "I love you John"

"I love you too Molly"

Molly and John had been dating for 4 months now and John didn't see it going anywhere really, but he did love her. Molly is in love with Sherlock and she was so fragile he thought if he agreed to date her she might have less closure issues.

They both knew this was the case.

Molly didn't often stay the night, she came occasionally when he asked her, but left when he began to call out to Sherlock, it was too hard for her.

John showered quickly, allowing the water to soak him away from the world for a bit. Once he relaxed a little, he turned off the water and stepped out. Dripping bits of water off of his torso and allowing them to soak into the cotton material of his towel. He slippped into some red flannel pyjamas and went to sit in the sitting area, he took his place at the table and opened his laptop. He clicked the link for his blog and opened up his last entry, it was saved as a draft. John began reading.

"The Fall"

Hello,

It's Dr. John Watson here, and as much as I would love to continue this blog, this will be the last entry. Detective Sherlock Holmes is"

That was the end. He never finished the entry and probably never would. He closed the laptop and placed it back in it's spot. Sherlock's violin sat in its case, where he usually left it, on the coffee table in the sitting room.

John smiled to himself as he pictured his colleague standing there, in his tall posture with the instrument tucked under his chin and resting against his chest. John couldn't handle it, he just decided to take himself into bed. After all, maybe he'd fall into a dreamless sleep. Or maybe he'd have a dream about Sherlock. Either would be fine with him.

"Stop it John, Sherlock is dead. He isn't coming back" John snapped at himself. Just as he set it down, his mobile buzzed.
He clicked the text hastily, trying to get to bed.
"Wrong -SH"