Disclaimer: Sherlock and it's characters belongs, firstly to Sir. Conan-Doyle and secondly, to Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss. Additionally the monologue at the beginning is from Doctor Who. I do not own that either.

A/N: This is just a little fic I wrote after The Reichenbach Fall. Yes, it's angsty but it ends up somewhere nice, don't worry. :) Also it is written in a slightly different style to my usual work, so I hope it's alright. I'd love the feedback as always. :) Enjoy! Kar, xx

The Story Of How I Died (or Days Without You)

My name is Doctor John Watson, and this is the last story I'll ever tell.

This is the story of how I died.

For the first thirty-eight years of my life nothing happened. Nothing at all. And then I met a man called Sherlock Holmes. A man who could tell anything about anyone. He took me away from my mundane, lonely life. He showed me how to live and gave me a life worth living. I thought it would never end.

That's what I thought. But then came the popularity and the media; then came Moriarty and the Fall. And that's when it all ended.

This is the story of how I died.

But you know that story. Everyone knows that story, because every damn newspaper and magazine in the country knows the story. This is the story of what happened next...

~ *XX* ~

I thought I'd be able to cope. I thought, after the funeral, I'd be able to move on. But I was wrong. It's not that easy. It's never been that easy for me and it never will be.

Part of me wished I was back in Afghanistan. But I wasn't.

I was in 221B Baker Street, against all my better knowledge. I stayed because I didn't want to leave Mrs. Hudson. I stayed because I had nowhere else to go.

But mostly I stayed because I couldn't bear to leave.

~ *XX* ~

On the first day after the funeral, I wake early. And I feel like I'm about to be sick. At first I don't know why, and then it comes back to me in flashes of images. My throat closes up; my heart clenches; my guts knot and writhe. I want to cry and just let everything go, but I can't. With a dry sob, I curl into a ball.

I don't leave my room that day. I ignore the fact I have another appointment with my therapist. I just wanted it all to end.

And when Mrs. Hudson knocked on my door, I pretend to be asleep.

~ *XX* ~

On the second day, I leave my room with determined -false- optimism. Then I weep over the two cups of tea I've made with breakfast. I'd been on autopilot and made one for myself and one for...

~ *XX* ~

On the third day, I make it most of the day without weeping. I switch on the television for the first time and find a repeat of Antiques Roadshow to watch. It's mundane and makes me feel lonely like I did before...

Then the sound of the violin reaches my ears. And before I can remind myself and stop, I'm shouting.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, please shut it! I'm trying to w-"

I clamp my mouth shut, furious with myself and the world. The music is coming from a lone busker on the corner of Baker Street, which floats up to the flat through the open window.

I slam the window shut and the glass pane shakes threateningly.

~ *XX* ~

On the fourth day, I fall out of bed.

My leg collapses and it won't let me stand without support. I actually crawl along the floor to reach my cane. It's gathered so much dust, since I last used it. Grimly, I spend a few moments cleaning it until I can't stop myself anymore. My stomach wretches and tears fall from my eyes to mingle with the dust.

I hate myself so much in that moment. And I hate Sherlock Holmes for leaving me like this.

~ *XX* ~

On the fifth day, I open my laptop for the first time. I log onto my blog and spend a few moments -or possibly hours- just staring at the screen. Then, I type. It's just the once sentence, but it's all I need.

'He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.'

Then, determinedly, I find a news clip. And when I'm done I close my laptop firmly. I don't open it again.

~ *XX* ~

On the sixth day, I clean. I clean everything in the whole damn flat, for so long and with such efficiency that it distracts me well. It's hard with my limp, but that just makes me even more determined to succeed.

And then I find the hat. That stupid deerstalker, that became the 'Sherlock Holmes Hat'. For a few moments I just look down at it in my hands, until I can't bare it anymore and I throw it across the room in resentment.

I don't cry this time. But I shake uncontrollably.

~ *XX* ~

The days go on. Some are worse than others. Some I spend chatting reminiscently with Mrs. Hudson. We'll smile and drink tea in her small kitchen and for a while it's good.

Then some days... some I can't even remember through the grief.

~ *XX* ~

And then came the visitors. Mycroft. Lestrade. Molly. Even Sally stops by briefly. If they notice the reappearance of my cane, they say nothing.

Mostly, I'm overwhelmed. The only time I feel anything else is when Molly visits and I'm surprised. She seems more worried for me and ignores the fact Sherlock, the man she has pined over for so long, is gone.

But, I don't want the attention of visitors. I don't want their sympathetic looks. I just want them to leave me to carry on. To keep calm and carry on, just like the soldier I am.

~ *XX* ~

That's what I do. I carry on.

~ *XX* ~

And then, on the forty-second day after the funeral, there is a knock at the door. Not the front door, but the door to the living room. I open it and Sherlock is there, just like that, as though he has never been absent from my life. And for the first and only time in my life, I faint.

When I come around, I'm still on the threshold and Sherlock is still there.

"John?"

I leap up and stagger, nearly taking Sherlock with me. My cane falls from my limp hand. It knows it's no longer needed.

"Sherlock?"

He nods. Just the once. And quirks that little one sided smile of his.

And I know.

Tears form in my eyes and relief floods though me closely followed by anger and a demand for explanation. For a moment I am torn and then I reach forward to clasp my hands to his face. I kiss him. It's not a kiss of passion, nor of burning desire. It's a kiss of relief. And love for my best friend. Relief and pure joy that my best friend is alive; that I have my life back. My lips press against his so firmly, they go numb. And when I finally pull back, Sherlock is looking stunned. Although, to be fair, he looks even more stunned after I punch him.

Then, with anger still flowing through me, I release my clenched fist and glare at the insufferable man before me.

"Don't you dare do that to me again. And if you ever mention this again I will personally make sure you never survive any fall again." He knows I'm joking, but he never will mention it again.

I turn and stalk back to the sofa, at least attempting to keep my pretence of anger up. Sherlock follows me with a brief chuckle and hangs his coat up. He knows he'll have to apologise and explain everything later. But that's later, so he allows himself the brief laugh.

And I can't help it, wiping my streaming eyes, I grin like a fool.

Sherlock Holmes grins in reply. "It's good to back, John."

~ *XX* ~

With a satisfied sigh, John Watson leans back against the sofa and pushes his laptop away from him. His last story finished. Sherlock Holmes, who has been watching over his shoulder, makes a noise of disapproval.

"What now?" John asks wearily.

"You've made a mistake," Sherlock says flatly.

John's eyes narrow and he leans forward to his laptop again. "Where?"

Sherlock points. "It says 'this is the story of how I died', but you didn't actually die, John."

"It's an expression."

"Expression?" The words are accompanied by a screwed up nose.

"Yes, Sherlock," John says, patiently. "It's an expression, because... well, because you are my life. Everything we do together is my life. And without you I..." He doesn't need to finish his sentence; Sherlock is already nodding in understanding. He looks very strangely touched and John can tell he doesn't quite know what to say.

"Anyway... what did you think of the rest of it?"

"Are you going to put it up on your blog?"

"I wasn't going to, no," John says. "People talk enough about us already, without them knowing-"

"-That you kissed me," finishes Sherlock.

"Yes," says John. "But you already knew that I wasn't going to publish it, didn't you."

He receives a small smile from Sherlock. "It's too... melodramatic for your blog anyway, John."

"Doesn't mean it's not true," says John softly, by means of a weak argument.

Sherlock doesn't disagree. A haunted look crosses his eyes as he lays a hand on John's shoulder and squeezes. "I'm sorry," he says simply.

John covers Sherlock's hand with his own. "I know."