Short silly drabble about John's feelings after the fall. My first Sherlock fanfiction in ages, so excuse the lack of quality - I'm trying to get back into writing fanfiction again, and writing about possibly the most heartbreaking episode of all of television seemed suitable enough. (Just a little irrelevant note, the soundtrack for series 1 that had been released today is utterly fantastic! I hope they release one for series 2 quick enough, haha.) Anyway, reviews are greatly appreciated, etc. etc., you know the drill ;)

He would always believe in Sherlock Holmes.

Sometimes he sat and thought. Mrs Hudson was careful to avoid John during these periods of the day, because his mood was prone to switching to completely unbearable in seconds. He could sit there for just a minute, or he could stay in the same immobile position for hours, but he always thought about the same thing.

Sherlock Holmes was his best friend – in some aspects, his only friend. People had the tendency to say that Sherlock was the lonely, isolated one, and they were wrong; it was common not to acknowledge John Watson, especially in the presence of the great detective, but he was used to it. He had been solitary his whole life, a big, empty hole in his heart that had never been filled.

At times he was grateful for Mike Stamford to have introduced him to Sherlock Holmes. Most of the time, he was angry.

Oh, John loved Sherlock, he really, really did. People often claimed they were gay, or in some sort of 'more than platonic' relationship, but it wasn't like that. In some aspects, they were made for each other – their whole lives revolved, depended on one another's existence – and well, when one of them is dead, what has the other got to live for?

John thought about this often. It seemed that over the months the only reason he was still alive was for Sherlock, because he knew that if Sherlock Holmes had not been there to offer him a chance to live with him, a chance for them to be merely flatmates, he would've most likely been left to rot in that same old flat he had been offered as a temporary living space when he had returned from Afghanistan. Writing two liners about how he had gone to the shops on his blog, perhaps. Taking regular visits to his therapist, nothing in his life ever improving.

These were the kinds of things John liked to think about. And when he wasn't thinking about Sherlock, his attempts to lead a normal life after the fall was close to impossible. It was almost as if somebody had plunged him into a pool of eternal depression, one that he would never be able to swim out of – one that he would eventually have to drown in, to accept the fact that he was never going to get better. Some may have snorted at this, commenting snidely that he couldn't spend the rest of his life in such a state.

Many people did not understand. Sherlock Holmes was perhaps the only thing that gave John hope, hope in this world almost devoted to suffering and pain. While Sherlock Holmes led a fairly sociopathic lifestyle, John was perhaps one of the few, if not only person who saw through that mask – it was clear to the soldier that Sherlock did feel some form of emotion; he just chose not to show it. Yes, Sherlock may have genuine naivety towards the feelings and emotions of others, the way people responded to certain situations, but saying that he had no heart? John would hardly find it normal for him to agree with something that James Moriarty had expressed, but he found the consulting criminal to be right.

Sherlock Holmes did have a heart. And John Watson would always believe that. No matter what the press claimed, no matter how many people approached him with sympathetic responses to Sherlock's 'confession', he would never doubt Sherlock or his actions. Sherlock Holmes was genuinely his best friend, despite all the faults and flaws he possessed, and it was only later that John learnt that his life was at risk of being lost before Sherlock had taken the fall; what if he was being threatened? By Moriarty? If he did not claim that he was a 'fake', and kill himself by jumping off the building of St Bartholomew's hospital, would John have died?

John often asked himself, what sort of a man could possibly be heartless if he were to save his friend's life in exchange for his own?