Grief

Denial

So... This is my Sherlock fanfic. I hope you enjoy it. Warning: it is very sad so don't expect some "happy, cute Johnlock romance" or anything.

It is based on the time between "The Reichenbach Fall" and when Sherlock came back in "The Empty Hearse" and is from John's point of view (obviously).

Each chapter is based on one of the five stages of grief. (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.) This means that there will probably only be five chapters. Please leave comments on what I should improve on and what you think. They would really help since I am new to posting stories for others to see. Anyway, enough of this text you probably won't read. Enjoy!

2 Months after the fall: August

John sat in his new flat, no furniture just boxes of his few belongings. This is good. He thought, A fresh start, that's what I need.
Still, as he sat there all he felt was lonely and empty. He reached for his phone on the table and it immediately went to the number he had gotten used to seeing many times;

Sherlock.

Without thinking, he pressed the call button, his instincts kicking in. It wasn't until four rings that he realized that there would be no answer. Of course, he sighed lightly as loneliness crawled back out of him, like a snake trying to slither slowly out of his throat. Dead men can't answer phones. So, why do I keep calling him? This was not the first time this had happened that day. It was, what? the seventh time? What day is it? He wondered aloud to an empty room.

Sleeplessness and grief blend all the days together in one meaningless blur. He plucked his phone from the table next to him and pressed the button to power it on. Bright white light streamed out of the screen, filling the dark room with iridescent light. His eyes burned as he looked at the blinding screen. The phone blinked the date;

TUESDAY, AUGUST 16

He groaned as he set the phone back on the table. Great, he thought, Another rainy Tuesday.

As he watched the rain flow steadily down the window, he remembered the day exactly two months ago that left him with such torture. The day he lost Sherlock Holmes.

He stood on the sidewalk in front of Saint Bart's hospital, looking up helplessly. He had seen enough to know what this meant. He would do anything to stop it from happening, but instead, he stood there paralyzed in fear and grief. His best friend stood on that rooftop. His only friend. This is it, he thought, the man who taught me so many things and sent me on so many adventures is here on the ledge of this hospital about to do the unthinkable. He couldn't help but wonder why. Why would such an extraordinary person with such a beautiful mind commit suicide? Sherlock Holmes, too. He was anything but modest.

John had learned to live with this fact, just as Sherlock had learned how to live with the war-scarred John who brought along a new girl every week and was not even close to half as smart as himself. It was how they lived, and they both respected each other's quirks, knowing that their life was far from normal. That friendship had led them to go on so many adventures together. So many and now, no more. What would he do with all that time? What would he do without his best friend?

He now still asks that question to himself. John looks out the window to see that it is now the afternoon, around lunchtime. Outside, everyone is going about their normal, happy lives. Little girls skipping through the neighborhood, a young couple going out for lunch in the nearby restaurant. How can they be living so happily while I'm here in a bubble of grief? he wondered. But they were not him. They didn't have his life and his problems. He began to feel jealous, wondering why life isn't so hard for them.He stopped himself. No; I shouldn't be having these cruel thoughts. He grabbed his laptop and started reading through his old blogs, his usual distraction from life.