60 Ways to Say Goodbye - A Johnlock Fanfiction

Chapter One

Hello everybody! So I am a huge shipper of Johnlock and I needed to write my feelings, so I bring to you, this fanfic. Comment and vote and stuff. :)

It is post-reich and DOES NOT FOLLOW THE CANON!!! So I'm sorry if you're crazy about dates and the whole three years in between thing.

Thanks for choosing to read my story! I hope you love it, so be sure to leave lots of comments to let me know how I'm doing.

-BB

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Chapter One

I looked over the brass letter on the front door of our - my - flat.

221b

It was the same as it was when I first came here. There was no wear on the metal, no rusting despite the heavy rain that came with living in central London.

I pulled the key out of my pocket and held it in my palm. Staring down at the well-used piece of metal, I felt a twist in my stomach.

Shaking that off, I inserted the key into the lock of the dark brown door. I sighed and turned the key to the right, hearing the familiar click of the door unlocking. I hung my head down, not ready to face the empty flat and pushed the door open.

I stood for a moment staring into the hallway. I looked to the right at the closed door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. I could hear her bustling around in the kitchen, but I didn't feel like talking right now. I wasn't even completely sure why I was here to begin with.

Gathering up the strength I needed, I took a step through the doorway and closed the door behind me.

Might as well get this over with I thought to myself. I walked up the stairs as slowly as physically possible. I wasn't ready to do this.

At the top of the stairs was where it hit me.

The yellow smiley face on the wall, sprinkled with bullet holes. The pictures that lined the mirror above the fireplace.

His crumpled blanket still falling over the sofa, where he had left it.

With a sigh, I walked to my armchair and fluffed the Union Jack pillow before sitting down. I sat back, slouching.

He should be sitting across from me in the black leather chair; the shining surface of which mocked me with it's emptiness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a light turn on in the kitchen, amongst the clutter of papers and lab equipment from the last case before...

I looked over to the kitchen table to see his phone lighting up with a text message.

A tear ran down my face. Wiping it away brought more of them. My mind was full of grief and self pity. I had to clench my teeth to keep from choking on my sobs.

My best friend was gone. He was dead. I had seen him jump and had done nothing to help him.

I stood up and grabbed the pillow off my chair, throwing it across the room. It hit the window and dropped to the ground, making barely a sound...just like he had.

"Why can't he come back?!" I yelled, my voice shaking with anger at the world and at myself, for not being able to save him.

I sunk to the ground, overcome with self pity and even more than that, pity for the man I'd lost.

My consulting detective. The one and the only. My friend. He drove me crazy, but I enjoyed every minute of it. My adventure. My amusement.

My love.

My Sherlock.

I rested my elbows on the floor and held my head in my hands.

Why did I always get myself involved with the people that hurt me? Sherlock was by far my favorite out of the long list of these people, and here I was, sitting in our flat without him. All the hope of seeing him again had been flushed out of my brain when I saw the casket being lowered into the ground.

I had seen him jump of the hospital to his death. I had taken his pulse. I had visited his grave. I had seen it all, and it was all too real.

But this was the first time I had been back to our flat.

It was too much. I missed him. I needed him back. I needed the excitement back in my life and I needed...

I needed to tell him that I loved him. That I do love him.

I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. They stopped at the doorway. I wanted it to be Sherlock, waking me up to tell me that the past months had only been prolonged dream and that I was in a coma. But I guess I couldn't be so lucky.

"John," I heard Mrs. Hudson's voice say my name pitifully.

I sat up and looked at her blankly. My face felt puffy and I had a massive headache from crying.

I sighed, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

She walked over to me and bent down, hugging my shoulders, "John, don't be sorry. This is going to be a hard time for you, knowing what you felt for Sherlock."

"What?" I looked at her, surprised, standing up. How could she know my secret? I hadn't told anyone, and Mrs. Hudson sure wasn't, well...she wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

"You two were very good friends," she explained.

"Oh, right," I mumbled, relieved.

"I'll never understand how you could stand him most of the time," she muttered.

"Yeah, he was a complicated person," I agreed, "but when you care about someone...'s well being."

"Oh, John," she held her head down, with what I could only assume was sorrow for me.

"Don't feel bad for me, Mrs. Hudson," I shook my head, and lied, "I don't need that, I'll be fine."

Mrs. Hudson nodded morosely.

"If you don't mind, I'm going to stay here for a while...in the flat. The place I tried living in got too expensive and, well...I couldn't bear to get another flatmate," I informed her.

"I understand. I'd love to have you back, actually. It's been all too lonely around here. Don't worry about this month's rent, John," she said.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I will have the rent to you. I will not take advantage like that," I assured her.

"No, really, You don't need to -," she started.

"Mrs. Hudson, please," I looked at her. I wanted to live my life the way I had been before everything got screwed up.

The old woman nodded, and with that, she left the room.

I stood alone in the middle of the room for a moment before running my hands over my face.

I walked into the kitchen and looked at Sherlock's phone, checking to see who had texted him.

Mycroft Holmes.

The message read:

I assume Doctor John Watson is the beholder of my brother's phone as of the moment. If you are reading this, John, I am sorry for your loss, as you are most likely feeling the pain of my brother's unfortunate death harder than I. I wish you the best in these dark times. I feel that we are the only people that know for sure that Sherlock was not a fraud. I am sorry that he left this life with the world thinking that he was a fake, but it was the best he could do under his circumstances. I hope you may pay me a visit in the future. ~MH

I sat silenced by Mycroft's words. He only knew the half of what I was feeing.

I texted him back quickly:

Thank you, Mycroft. I will see you in times to come. ~JW 

I sat back down in my chair. I looked at Sherlock's violin and laughed thinking about how terrible he was when we had first met.

Looking at his music stand, I saw the piece Sherlock had started to compose. I could picture him working out the notes, staring out the window with the blank expression that he usually wore upon his face.

I really was never going to get over this.

It dawned on me what I had to do.

***

I walked through the mossy hills of the cemetery where Sherlock had been buried.

I came to a clearing where there was one grave.

Sherlock's. It was in front of a tall tree that cast a shadow upon the surrounding area.

This was the second time I had visited him. The last time I asked Sherlock not to be dead and it had nearly killed me. I hadn't had the guts to come back for seconds, but sitting in the flat, I realized that maybe this is what I needed to do.

"Hi Sherlock," I started uneasily, "I just came back because...because I am lacking any friends now. I'm all alone, Sherlock. I need you back. I need you back in the house ignoring the fact that I'm not home. I just want to say I regret not coming to help you, and I hope you'll forgive me."

I drew in a shaky breath.

"You know...Mycroft told me that you weren't a fraud. I knew it. I never doubted you, Sherlock. I never stopped believing in you and now I need someone to believe in me. I think, and send me a sign if I'm wrong, but I think...that you always believed in me."

I waited for a sign. It was a long-stretch, but I would do anything to feel like someone was hearing me. A full minute passed and nothing happened.

"Thank you, Sherlock for believing in me," I hung my head down.

Taking a step forward, I placed the yellow rose that I had bought on my way here next to the grave.

When I bent down to do this, I noticed a white piece of paper sitting next to the tombstone.

I realized that it was an envelope, cream colored with a wax seal on the front.

My first instinct was to back away. Envelopes like this one were what put us here in the first place. But this one seemed more inviting. Maybe it was because the wax on the front was a lighter red than the blood-colored one that was on Moriarty's envelopes, but something made me pick up the letter.

I looked around to see who had left it, but there was nobody to be seen. People had no respect for their dearly departed anymore.

I slit the envelope with my nail and opened it to find money inside.

It was exactly enough money to cover half of the rent.