Eleven
John
I try to remember every case I helped Sherlock solve. Most of the time I was just following along, taking mental notes that I would later sit down and write for my blog.
There were very few times when I would actually give my input and even fewer times when I would be right.
But every once in awhile I would say something as simple as, "Do you think the husband did it?" or "Where's the dog?" And Sherlock would give me this look—his whole face would light up and he would point at me.
"Yes!" he would yell. "Of course! How didn't I see it before? You're a genius!"
And that little bit of praise would keep the smile on my face for the rest of the day. We'd solve the case and go back to Baker Street for whatever feast Mrs. Hudson had prepared while we were gone.
On days when Sherlock couldn't solve a case he would be quiet for the rest of the night. He would go up to his room without having dinner and he would play violin all night.
It was those nights—the nights he (or we) had solved a case—that were the best.
Those were the days that kept me going.
I loved writing about those cases—my fingers would fly across the keyboard and I'd write thousands of words about a single case. I'd go back through and cut some of the longer paragraphs out—the ones that went to far—the paragraphs that talked about the deep blue-green colour of Sherlock's eyes.
I try to replay each of those cases in my head when I wake up from a bad dream. But it isn't just a dream. It's the day Sherlock died—the day he jumped—replayed over and over again in my head.
So I think of the cases we solved. Well, I try to. But I can't remember them properly.
I can't remember if the kid that killed his twin was the one that actually committed suicide or if it was the twin brother's best friend.
I can't remember if the guy that was ripped apart limb-from-limb was because of the dog or the alcoholic neighbor that sometimes thought their house was his when he got really drunk.
They call get mixed together in my head.
YOU ARE READING
Suicide of Fake Genius - A Johnlock FanFiction
Fanfic"Goodbye, John." "No," he cries. "Don't." I nod, then throw the phone on the roof behind me. John takes the phone away from his ear and screams, "Sherlock!" I spread my arms out and fall forward off the building, hoping that something will catch m...
