Suicide of Fake Genius - A Johnlock FanFiction

Two - John

Two

John

He's gone.

I held his wrist, still warm and covered in blood, hoping and praying I would feel a pulse. But there was nothing. No heart beat, no sign of life whatsoever.

One of the pedestrians that was around when it happened helped me over to a nearby bench and sat with me, and that was the only thing holding me back from screaming my lungs out—the only thing holding me back from following Sherlock . . .

I wouldn't. I told myself that I wouldn't leave, too. If anything I would stay for Mrs. Hudson.

Walking back to Baker Street was a complete blur. And if I hadn't known my way by heart, I'm not sure if I would have even made it back, my head was somewhere else entirely, but I could find my way to Baker Street from anywhere in London.

I open the door to 221B and as soon as it closes behind me I slump to the floor and I pull my knees up to my chest, letting my head fall into my hands.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson calls from the kitchen. "Did you find Sherlock?"

I hear her footsteps getting louder as she approaches and she lets out a small "Oh," when she sees me.

She sits down next to me and I look up at her. She has a dishtowel slung over her shoulder and her hands are red from the hot water. "You're lucky," she says, even though that's the opposite of what I'm feeling right now, "I don't sit on the floor for just anyone. It messes with my hip, and you'll probably have to help me up."

I force myself to smile.

"John," she says.

I nod.

"Where's Sherlock?"

I clench my jaw, unable to tell if I'm angry or sad. A bit of both, I suppose. "He. . ." I shake my head and blink back tears. I can't do this. I can't say it out loud.

But he asked me to, so I have to. For him.

"He was a fake," I tell her.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes get wide and she looks like she wants to laugh for a second, then she sees the serious look on my face and decides against it. "A fake?" she repeats.

"A fake," I say again. "He created Moriarty for his own purposes, that's what he said before he. . ."

"Before he what, dear?"

My tears blur her face as I look up at her. "Before he jumped."

She puts a hand over her mouth and her eyes get wide, but she doesn't cry. Not for the first time do I wonder what Mrs. Hudson has gone through to get to this point. To seem so . . . emotionless.

I lean my head back against the wall, with my knees still pulled up and my forearms resting on them. We sit there for awhile—Mrs. Hudson and I—not saying a word, but still being there for each other and finding comfort in the silence we share together.

I dream about that moment every night. I dream about my best friend—my only friend—jumping off of the rooftop. About the blood covering his face and my fingertips pressing against his wrist, hoping for a pulse. Then nothing.

When I wake up in the mornings I still expect to find Sherlock to be standing at the open window playing violin.

When I come home from the grocery store I still expect him sitting in his chair with his fingertips pressed together, thinking.

When I open my laptop I still expect there to be a new window open with news articles and a new name in the search bar.

But none of those things happen. Mrs. Hudson hasn't reminded me to pay rent—I think she's afraid I don't have the money. Or, if she does remind me, that I'll end up leaving. We need each other now, because we don't have anyone else.

x x x

Mrs. Hudson and I are going to Sherlock's funeral today. I'm surprised at the amount of people that are there—I honestly didn't expect anyone to come. But they did. Molly, Greg, Anderson, and even Sally Donovan came, and I tried not to tell myself that she's the reason Sherlock is dead in the first place.

Mrs. Hudson holds my arm the whole time. I think she's afraid that, if she lets go, she'll lose me too.

I can't guarantee that she won't.