A/N: Yes, another Post-Reichenbach... this was the story that prompted me to start writing Sherlock in the first place. It started growing in my head and wouldn't let me alone till I sat down one day and started writing. In three hours I wrote an early version of the first three chapters. They have undergone much transformation since then (about 9 months ago) and I finally finished the last chapter last night!

Normal disclaimers apply - however, though they don't appear in this chapter, I have created some original characters that are my own.

Please enjoy.

A/N: (added on 7-24-14) Obviously now that Series 3 has aired, this has now become a slight AU, though I still try to keep the characters as in canon to the show as I can.

Present Day…

He knew he was drinking too much.

He knew it but pushed away the thought as he took another swig from the glass sitting on the table next to his chair.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. His fingers gripped at his head as if that would stop the thoughts spinning through his mind. With a sigh, he raked his fingers through his sandy blonde hair, and rubbed his tired eyes.

He pushed out of the chair and walked over to the window, taking his drink with him. He stared out into the dark rain without really seeing it. He leaned his forehead against the cold window pane and closed his eyes. His body ached with exhaustion, but sleeping wasn't an option right now. Not with the continual nightmares.

As the cold seeped through him, he could see it all happening again. He sagged against the window, fighting the despair.

He could see it all in his mind's eye. Unable to reach him, commanded not to move. Why hadn't he run up there right away? Maybe he could have done something to stop him.

He lifted his shaking hand and emptied the glass, feeling the burn of the whiskey give him the illusion of warmth.

He could see his hand stretched out toward him.

He could hear his desperate words, "Please! Will you do this for me?"

His final, heartfelt words, "Goodbye, John."

Then the free fall, black coat billowing around him.

He didn't see, but heard, felt the sickening thud as if it was happening right in front of him again.

"Damn it!" He jumped and staggered away from the window going back to fill up his glass.

The last thing he wanted was to be re-living the memories over and over while awake. It was bad enough at night, waking up in the pitch black, still shouting his name, trying to figure out where he was.

He looked around the sparse one room flat. It was a small and serviceable, but nothing more. A chair sat in the corner by the window. The lamp on his bedside table gave off enough light to show his bed hadn't been slept in the night before. His gaze wandered over to the desk and his laptop centered in front of the desk chair and a very barely useable kitchenette.

He spent one week at their flat before he left knowing he wasn't going to survive if he stayed. His old army friend, Bill Murray, invited John to stay with him and his family. After one week, unable to impose any longer, he left and bunked with Stamford until he found a job and was able to afford this little place. It was temporary. At least that's what he kept telling himself to make it bearable.

He just had the bare necessities here. Really all his personal belongings were still in 221B, but he couldn't bring himself to go back there. It had been hard enough going back to get clothes and his computer.

Five months earlier…

When John came down the stairs from his bedroom, the door to the sitting room was open. Forcing himself to enter the room to look for his laptop, he finally found it under a pile of Sherlock's papers, where he'd left it after he "borrowed" it last. When he turned around, he half expected to see Sherlock lounging on the couch.

The emptiness and silence of the flat hit John like physical blow. All the air rushed out of his lungs at the suddenness of it. His stomach twisted and rolled as he leaned against the back of a desk chair, gasping for air. John closed his eyes, struggling to bring himself under control. After several deep, controlled breaths, John grabbed his computer from the desk, trying not to disturb anything else, stuffed it in his bag and, after one last lingering look at the abandoned clutter, walked out shutting the door behind him.

Mrs. Hudson waited at the bottom of the stairs for him. As he walked down tiredly she just put her hand on his arm, and gave it a squeeze, before turning away with tears in her eyes.

He promised to see her soon, slipped out, hailed a cab and went to the new flat. He couldn't call it home. It really wasn't. He didn't have a home anymore. 221B held memories of "home" but was too echoing and empty now.

Present Day…

Sherlock had been gone almost six months now and he was barely functional.

He was able to hold himself together when he was at work at a nearby surgery. Stamford had given him a reference knowing he needed a job, and they needed a part time doctor. It forced him to leave the flat. It was when he got back to the flat that he fell apart.

He had been ok for a few months. Then the numbness and shock started to wear off. He had gone to his therapist after the first month and relived everything with her. Then he went with Mrs. Hudson to see Sherlock's grave for the first time since the funeral.

Being there and trying to say what he really wanted to tell Sherlock in person was one of the hardest things he had ever done. He had seen men die before, good men, his friends. He'd nearly died, himself, protecting his comrades from snipers. But seeing Sherlock's grave just made it seem more final that his best friend was truly gone.

He asked, no, he begged for a miracle just for him, hoping against hope, against all reason.

His control slipped, and his emotions broke through. For just that moment, he allowed himself a few tears, shielded by the hand over his eyes. He allowed himself a few shuddering sobs, just whispers of the grief breaking his heart. Then he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sniffed the tears back.

He raised his head, looking out beyond the gravestone, seeing his friend there in his mind's eye. He nodded, as if to say he would try. He paused a moment longer, then with an about face, strode away towards Mrs. Hudson and the waiting cab.

Not long after, Mycroft came to see him, on some trumped up excuse. Although John was sure it was just to check in on him. It was all he could do not to deck him. He could feel red hot fury flooding through him when he saw Mycroft at the door. John knew Mycroft could read him as well as Sherlock had; read the rage that was making him shake.

Mycroft stood stiffly in the doorway, just barely inside the door. His hands tightened their grip on his ever present umbrella, as he worked to control his reaction at the sight of the haggard, haunted man before him.

He tried to speak, "John, I wanted to tell you… to explain."

"Don't. Just don't," John interrupted, his voice low and threatening. "I need you to just leave. Right now. I swear if you don't… Just. Go. Now. Don't check on me. Leave me alone! You gave Moriarty what he needed, and left your brother alone. You didn't even warn him. Now he's gone and I'm alone and there's nothing left…." John shook his head, refusing to say anymore, already having said more than he wanted.

Mycroft tried again, a hint of his own pain slipping through his mask. "Let me explain. Let me help…"

John snorted with contempt. "You can't. I don't want your kind of help!"

With that, he turned and slammed the door, Mycroft stepping back just in time to keep from getting hit in the face.

His voice muffled through the door, Mycroft attempted, one last time. "John, please. I need to give you… Sherlock wanted me…"

"Don't you even say his NAME!" John roared. Lashing out in anger and pain he yelled, "You betrayed him! You worried about him. You wanted me to keep him safe, and then you made it impossible for me to do so!" The rage suddenly draining out of him, John leaned against the closed door, breathing heavily.

He heard a tentative whisper, "I'm sorry, John." Then there was a shuffle of feet as Mycroft shifted his weight before turning. His steady steps faded away down the hall.

That was the night John picked up the bottle to drink away the crippling grief that threatened to swamp him.

John shook himself out of the memories and drank the whole glass down before refilling it with the amber liquid that had become his companion.

When he collapsed onto his bed later that night, he was numb, at least for the moment. He finally was able to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

He woke late in the morning to the ringing of his phone.

Greg Lestrade's voice sounded in his ear. "John. I'm on my way over. Be there in about twenty." He hung up before John was able to say anything, not giving him the chance to say no.

When Greg got there, John was up and moving, albeit slowly, making tea. He offered some to Greg and then sat down at the desk, gesturing to the other chair.

Greg sat down on the edge, clearly uncomfortable. He looked around the room seeing the empty bottles of whiskey on the counter, the desk, the bedside table. He looked back at John, taking in his red rimmed eyes, clothes that hung loosely on his frame, the new lines of grief etched into his face.

"John, you can't keep doing this to yourself."

John just looked at him over the rim of his cup.

He didn't have any animosity toward Greg anymore. Greg persisted in calling and seeing John that first month, and in the process, had allowed John to glimpse how much he blamed himself for Sherlock's death. It was never mentioned between them, but when John had started returning his phone calls, and forced himself to go out once in a while with him, Greg knew he was forgiven.

Greg locked eyes with him and tried again. "You have to stop drinking. It's not making anything better, and you know it. You're a doctor. You know the danger, what with your sister and father. You also know it's not doing anything to help with the… the… memories, dreams, whatever."

"What do you know?" John snapped. "How can you even…. I can't sleep. I can barely work. I see him everywhere and I just…" John stopped, his voice cracking, looking away. He clamped his jaw shut and rubbed his left hand on his leg, trying to stop the tremors.

"John, I get it. I really do." Greg continued with a sigh. "I lost my best mate, my partner to a stray bullet when we were on patrol."

"I watched him die in my arms before the medics could get there. I couldn't do anything. I was helpless. I couldn't sleep. The nightmares. The blood I couldn't get off my hands. Having to tell his family, his mother, his wife. I drank. A lot. It just made it worse."

He sighed and leaned back in the chair, not sure if John had really heard him at all.

John was utterly still, staring at the floor. Finally he muttered, "I don't know how to do this. How to keep going on. I'm losing myself. I don't know who I am anymore. I thought I wanted the numbness to go away, but now I want it back. I just… I want it to stop."

Greg leaned forward again. "John…. You're not thinking… I mean you won't – wouldn't do anything stupid will you?"

John's looked at him for a moment before he dropped his gaze back to the floor.

The empty look in his friend's eyes shook Greg more than anything he had said so far. He hadn't expected John, of all people…

"Can you promise me that you won't do anything?"

When John didn't answer and just kept staring at the floor, Greg got up and walked over to the window. He ran a hand through his thick, graying hair and then leaned his forehead against the window as he searched for words.

He cleared his throat.

"John."

He tried again. "John, look at me."

Slowly John turned his body towards him, raising his head slightly.

It was enough to show Greg he was listening even if he wasn't looking at him directly. He grabbed his chair and dragged it over next to John.

"Listen. I knew Sherlock better than anyone, besides you. I worked with him for about five years before he met you. Remember when we first met and you asked me why I put up with him?"

John nodded slightly.

"I told you he was a great man and if we were very, very lucky someday he might even be a good one. That's what I saw happen. Your friendship changed him. Yeah, he was still an annoying and arrogant sod, brilliant like before, but he… I don't know how to put it. He changed. You influenced him. He was more aware of people, of his own weaknesses, became more human."

"He respected you, John. He admired you for your strength and your ability to stay steady, even in the most stressful situations. I could see it. It was the way he looked to you, relied on you. I had never seen him rely on another human being before. Maybe he didn't say the words, but your loyalty and steadfast trust in him… your friendship, it… it saved him."

John drew a shaky breath. "Do you know the last time we saw each other, really face to face was in the lab at St. Bart's? I had just gotten the call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, and tried to get him to go back with me. When he wouldn't come, I called him a machine." He shook his head.

"I should have known better than to say that. He said that being alone was his protection."

"But, it didn't. He still… he still…" His voice trailed off.

"John, Sherlock wouldn't want to have you spiral down like this. He wouldn't want to see you drinking yourself to death to try to forget."

Greg's voice got rough with emotion. "Yeah, you are going to miss him like hell. And it's going to hurt. But you're strong. Stronger than most people I know, and I know he knew it too. I don't know why the hell he did what he did. But I know that he would have thought you'd be able to make it through. Somehow, you have to keep going. Live for him. Live like he would want you to."

"This, this isn't living, this isn't life!" cried John. "Before I met – him, I was dead, dying. When I started chasing after that bloody idiot, it was like the world suddenly had color again. I had a purpose, even if it was just to be a replacement for his sodding skull! Now… now I'm nothing."

Greg's concern grew the more John talked. He was prepared to stay as long as he had to. He wasn't going to leave his friend alone, not now that he knew how he really was doing.

He thought of all the times he'd seen John and Sherlock together. When he first appeared with Sherlock, he seemed to be quiet, mild mannered and so easy going. John stayed in the background, but he always knew the right time to step forward. With just a quiet word or a hand on his arm he could stop Sherlock in the middle of a tirade of abuse.

He was shocked the first time he's observed John in a tight spot as his military training kicked in, taking command of the situation, barking orders to keep people safe. Then he'd pulled out his gun, his hands rock stead, demonstrating his lethal, spot on aim. He'd seen him take out men nearly twice his size in hand to hand combat. Then the gun was put away, and the doctor took over, treating the injured, shouting out orders to others, but speaking calmly and quietly to those he worked over. Hell, he'd been on the receiving end of some of that medical care.

Seeing John with such pain and emptiness in his eyes was almost more than Greg could bear. He had hoped that the face John had been showing the outside world in the past few months was the real one. He should have known better. He mentally kicked himself, because as Sherlock would say, he hadn't really observed.

John's chair scraped against the floor as he jumped up. He felt a pressure building up and he walked blindly over to the window.

John clenched and unclenched his hand that wasn't holding his tea, his back to Greg. He couldn't stop the tremors running through him. He couldn't hear anything over the roaring in his ears. All the guilt, anger and pain rushed to the surface, choking him. Just when he thought he couldn't take another breath, something shattered.

Greg jumped to his feet when John threw his mug across the room and blindly punched the wall. He almost had put his fist through the window but changed direction at the last moment.

Greg stood near John; not touching him, just watching and waiting.

John looked down, blinking dully at his hand and realized it was throbbing in time to his pounding heart. His hand hurt. His shoulder ached. But the mounting pain inside superseded everything. Punching the wall again wasn't going to diffuse it. He knew Greg wasn't going to let him drink, but he didn't want to feel the pain threatening to engulf him.

He threw a desperate, sideways glance at the desk drawer that held his army revolver. He calculated if he could get to the gun before Greg stopped him, if he could overpower the older man long enough to get his hands on it.

Greg saw the look, instinctively reading John's thoughts. His body tensed as his adrenaline spiked, ready to tackle John if he had to.

Very gently, he said, "No, John. The gun isn't the answer anymore than drinking is." He paused, trying to gauge what effect his next words were going to have on John.

"You know, Sherlock considered you his friend. He wouldn't have let you go off on that false call, unless it was to protect you from whatever was going on at St. Bart's. He – we think he purposely met… Moriarty up there. John, when we checked out the roof we found Moriarty there. He was dead; a self-inflicted gunshot to the head."

"Sherlock," John whispered. The revelation caused his head to pound. "He was already doing what I was trying to tell him. Protecting me..." He choked back a sob, remembering his last words 'friends protect people.'

Any attempt at regaining composure became impossible. He could almost hear Sherlock's voice telling him he was an idiot.

"Oh, God!" His breath caught in his throat. "Oh Sherlock…" The weight and enormity of what he had lost literally took him to his knees.

John pulled his knees up to his chest, tucking his head down and covering it with his arms, as if he was preparing for an artillery barrage. Everything crashed over him all at once and he was oblivious to everything but the pain, anguish and regret that pounded him down.

Unable to hold it in anymore, powerful sobs tore through him.

Greg sat on the floor with John, as a silent, solitary witness. His own breath caught in his throat, as he realized John was crying his friend's name over and over.

John's heart wrenching sobs stole the air from his lungs as he wept bitterly, for himself, for Sherlock. He couldn't have stopped the tears now if he wanted to. The dam had burst and he felt like he was drowning.

Greg wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, supported him and offered the comfort of his presence and his friendship. It was agonizing to see his friend so despairing and broken. He didn't know if his help would be enough for John to keep going, but he was damned if he wasn't going to try.

Hours later, John slowly uncurled, letting his hands drop into his lap. He leaned heavily against Greg, exhausted and empty of anything but grief. Grief so incredible, so heavy, it was hard to breathe.

There was a timid tap at the door, and Greg smiled faintly as Mrs. Hudson quietly came in and took off her coat. He was grateful she answered his call and came so quickly, without question.

She took in the scene with a glance then made a beeline for them, where they sat under the window. Greg still supported John as he leaned against his shoulder. His head hung down, a shaking hand covering his eyes.

"John." She reached her hand down and touched his shoulder gently.

He rubbed his face before looking up. When she saw the tear tracks and the unguarded pain in his eyes, she knew the walls John had put up around himself had finally broken down.

Greg rose stiffly to his feet and offered John a hand. John sat limply for a moment, but managed to find the strength to take it. He helped him up and steadied John when he staggered.

Mrs. Hudson put her arms around him in a hug and, after a moment, he raised his arms and hugged her back. She looked over his shoulder at Greg and silently mouthed the words, "Thank you."

John thought the tears were gone, but with the hug, they started again, and he was too exhausted to try to stop them. He felt how thin Mrs. Hudson had gotten in the past few months, and felt guilty, realizing she had been struggling just as badly as he was.

Greg switched on a light, then walked to the little kitchenette and started some tea, while Mrs. Hudson sat John down on his bed, and pulled up one of the chairs to sit near him.

John looked at her, the normal light in his eyes dulled with the anguish that was all too evident in his face. "I'm sorry." His voice cracked, and he paused to get it under control. "I'm so sorry that I haven't been around for you."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. "I know dear. It's all right. I understand. This has been a… hard time for all of us."

Greg came over with two cups of tea. He gave one to Mrs. Hudson then held the other out for John. As John reached up to take it, he got a good look at Greg face and read the weariness and sorrow that he carried too. He realized anew that he wasn't the only one struggling with the loss of Sherlock.

It was dark outside the window now. The lamp illuminated the faces of three friends who could now start together to pick up the pieces of their lives that had fallen apart six months earlier. Nothing would ever be the same again but at least they weren't so alone.

Please Read and Review! Next chapter should be ready to go soon!