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17 January 2012 @ 12:01 pm
one more miracle (sherlock fic)  

title: one more miracle
summary: He hadn't realized just how much he'd have to adjust to life without Sherlock.
word count: ~1200
disclaimer: i don't own BBC Sherlock.
warnings: none.
a/n: my first foray into sherlock fandom. oh, boy.

He hadn't realized how much he'd have to adjust to life without Sherlock.

He had a life before, he knows he did. When he thinks back, he can almost remember it - can remember what it was like when he was only John Watson, only Doctor Watson, can remember talking to his therapist and not saying much because he had little to report.

He remembers those days and he hates them, hates who he was, back then.

He had eighteen months with Sherlock, eighteen, but he feels the loss more acutely than anything he's felt before.

(He feels the loss more than he's ever loved anyone, and that's why, he supposes, every date he's been on has gone to shit.)

He doesn't have it in him to care, anymore.

Love is a dangerous disadvantage.

He hadn't understood what Sherlock meant.

Now, he does.


He misses.

He's not sure what it is that he misses, but he feels the loss achingly.

Some days, he can't get out of bed - some days, he's stuck there, curled up, because the weight of what he had and what he didn't have is piling up on him.

Sherlock had made him feel like an idiot, but John had always known where he stood with him.

He doesn't know where to stand, now.


Sherlock wouldn't want him to feel this way.

Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him to feel so alone, so out-of-place now that he's -

(Dead, he makes himself think, and it hurts but he's got to admit it.

He has to move on.)

But it doesn’t matter what Sherlock would have wanted, he thinks, some days when it gets bad, because he’s gone, buried in the ground.


Mrs. Hudson tries to help.

She helps even after John shouts at her because she understands, because she knew him too, because she's going through what he's going through.

(It isn't the same, for them, though - it can't be. Because Mrs. Hudson - she wasn't - didn't -

love, he thinks, one night, and the thought hurts too much to continue.)


The days blend together.

One more miracle, he says at the grave, and now it's become his plea.

Come on, Sherlock, one more miracle. For me. Your old friend John.

He knows it's futile. He knows Sherlock won't come back.

It doesn't stop him from hoping.

He thinks Friends protect each other and it hurts, an ache in his chest, because that's what Sherlock did, was protect him.

(I never thanked him.)

Sherlock had made himself seem more inhuman in order to save John, and he – he doesn’t know what to do with that.


There are words that he can't say to his therapist.

He sees her and opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

"What were you going to say to him?" she asks, and her voice is soft but he closes his eyes, because the words hurt.

"I was -" and he shakes his head, cuts himself off. "I can't."

"That's okay," and she's too calm for his liking, reaches over to pat his hand.

In his mind, he jerks away, yells at her, tells her she doesn't know anything.

In reality, he sits there, lets himself be comforted.


He never gives up hope, not really.

You weren't a fraud, he tells himself, tells Sherlock, as though this monologue of his is going to find its way to him. You weren't.

He passes a cab and sees it - the hair - 

And he's running, before he can help himself.

The cab outruns him and he nearly collapses, shaking his head.

It would have stopped, if it were Sherlock.

Sherlock wouldn't have - couldn't have -

He shakes his head, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

He's dead, and it's the first time he's accepted it.


John can’t deal.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself, now; he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go about his life without Sherlock there.

He never would have thought himself to become so attached to him – to a him, at all. Before Sherlock, he was positive about everything, about his future, about what he wanted his future to be like – and then Sherlock, and then Iraq or Afghanistan and John wasn’t sure anymore.

It doesn’t matter, now, what he is or isn’t sure of. It doesn’t matter what his life would have become had he stayed because he hasn’t, because Sherlock’s left him, because for everything that Sherlock knew how to do staying alive wasn’t one of them.

And John is alone.

(He’s not alone, not really, but in the ways that matter.)


Mycroft visits him, once.

He smiles and John thinks for a moment how uncomfortable before he lapses back into Not Thinking because it hurts less.

“John,” Mycroft had said, and then, a hand on the shoulder, squeezing once. “I – my brother – he didn’t care for many people but he cared for you.”

John hadn’t said anything, and after a moment Mycroft had left, without another word.

He didn’t know what to do with that, because Sherlock – he wasn’t one to care, was one to tell everyone how much he didn’t but he’d seemed to tolerate John more than other people, and –

He closes his eyes against it, the wave of hurt threatening to engulf him.

It doesn’t matter who Sherlock cared for, or why, because he’s dead.

He’s dead and no matter how many times John thinks he sees him, that’s not going to change.

He’s dead, left his version of a note with John, and he has the memories to prove it – the memory of a hand, held up in farewell, the memory of Sherlock’s voice shaking, just so, and the rough, twisted memory of the fall, of running, of I’m a doctor and He’s my friend.

Pulling back the blanket in the morgue, Molly staring at him with wide eyes.

He remembers and so Sherlock must be dead.


He does, eventually, move on, in a way.

He goes on dates and doesn’t compare them to the man who haunts his thoughts. He goes to the graveyard less and less, once a month if at all. He smiles at Mrs. Hudson.

They’re small things, but they make him feel more human.

He doesn’t feel human much, lately. He’s more cold, he knows, and he wonders if this is Sherlock’s ghost, living on – but of course that’s ludicrous, because Sherlock wouldn’t have chosen someone as ordinary as John to live in.


He sees him, one day.

It’s him, irrefutably, and he isn’t smiling but he’s standing as though he’s waiting for something.

John’s mouth falls open and he’s shaking his head, hard, because that isn’t possible and he spent too long mourning and too long getting over the mourning for it to have been for nothing.

“John,” he hears, and he’s running, and when he reaches him he punches him in the face, as hard as he can.

He’s alive. The thought reverberates through him and he wants to sob with relief, with – something.

Sherlock looks at him, holding a hand to his cheek.

“Why?” John asks, because he has to, because a ghost is standing in front of him and he needs explanation.

“I’ll explain.” Sherlock holds out a hand. “Inside?”

He should be angry. He should be absolutely livid, and he is – but that’s not what’s coursing through him, making him want to collapse into a chair.

He’s relieved.

He has his best friend back.

John nods.

Current Mood: sicksick
Current Music: without you - glee version
*.{Jaz}.* :[fatal_scribbles on January 18th, 2012 02:19 pm (UTC)
Oh, my heart.

This is exactly the sort of thing I imagined happening afterwards. I am so glad John addressed his feelings for Sherlock properly in this. Lovely stuff, very realistic ♥
rumpledlinenrumpledlinen on January 18th, 2012 08:44 pm (UTC)
Thank you so much, that means the world to me!