Suicide of Fake Genius - A Johnlock FanFiction

Fourteen - John

[This chapter has a serious trigger warning! Please proceed with caution]

Fourteen

John

The thing about someone leaving your life so suddenly—so unexpectedly—is that you don't have time to prepare yourself for it. You can't make a plan for the bad days when you really miss them and want to go with them—to find them in the afterlife or wherever it is people go when they're gone.

It's been almost six months since Sherlock died, and I still don't know what to do. I know know how to get past this horrible black feeling buried deep in the pit of my stomach. Every time I try to move on I think of him and what he would've wanted for me. I like to tell myself that he'd want me to be happy—to finally move out of Baker Street and move on—to start a life without him. But I know him better than that. He would want me to stick around. To wait up for him, even if he's never coming back home.

Mrs. Hudson is doing everything she can, and I appreciate it, but it's not working. Nothing is.

I know it's time to move on, but I can't bring myself to do so.

x x x

"Do you want to come with me?" Mrs. Hudson asks, wrapping her scarf around her neck even though it's still surprisingly warm outside. Sometimes I sit in Sherlock's chair that I moved to the window and look outside. I'll watch the water droplets stream steadily down the window. Sometimes I'll press tobacco into Sherlock's pipe—the one he rarely smoked because he liked cigarettes better—and light it, blowing smoke out the crack I opened in the window and watch the smoke swirl, then get beaten down by the rain.

"No," I say, leaning back in Sherlock's chair. I add, "Thank you, though." So I don't sound rude.

Mrs. Hudson purses her lips and nods, closing the door behind her.

I wait until I hear her close the door downstairs and I see her walking down the street until I stand. I look out the window again, just to make sure she didn't forget something before going to the bathroom.

I open the middle drawer, pushing my razor and shaving cream aside to get to the back. A box of blades sit there and I pull them out,opening the box and taking one out.

I put everything back in the drawer where it was and sit back in the chair, studying the blade.

I set it on the arm of the chair and look out the window, trying to figure everyone that passes out—trying to guess their stories—to deduce them they way Sherlock would have. I don't usually come up with anything though. Just the obvious things like the man with dirt under his fingernails, holding a paper bag and stumbling down the street. He's obviously a drunk and spends all of his money on alcohol, leaving very little for clothing (and a shower. I walked past him one day with Mrs. Hudson and we both agreed we would let him come inside to take a shower.)

When I can't figure anything out about anyone, I pick the blade back up,pressing it into the skin below my wrist. I drag it across my arm,watching the blood start to run down. It's enough to distract me from the other pain. I'm not with him yet, but I will be.