I Hate You, a sherlock fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the Sick Puppies

Okay so normally I prefer not to jump on bandwagons but I'm so angsty over the "death" of Sherlock Holmes that I had to write this. I don't even think this fic is very good but I'm desperate. So here it is. Sorry for this miserable excuse of a song fic. Especially since it's really just a bunch of chronological drabbles inspired by the verses of "I Hate You" by Sick Puppies.

1/31/12 EDIT: Nothing has actually changed but the story went weird so I'm resetting the story.

I Hate You

Every time I end up breaking you
You change into something worth keeping
Every time I'm close to saving you
You grow into a sin worth believing

"You can't be a fraud. Everything you've ever told me, a lie? Ha." Dr. John Watson laughed humorlessly at the glassy, marble headstone. "You…you just… You can't just say you're lying and then jump off a frigging rooftop!" His voice was building. "Damn it all, Sherlock." He dropped to his knees in front of the plot.

He closed his eyes for a few moments, his hands resting on the ground. He finally opened them and stared at the headstone again. "Sherlock, I believe in you, not what you said when you ju—fell." He sighed loudly. "I believe in you."

You're everything I ever wanted
But it's never enough, you're never enough
I'll take whatever I can take
Whenever I can take it if it ever comes

John stared at all the boxes in the apartment. It was interesting that once he and Mrs. Hudson had packed up all of Sherlock's things, there was very little left. The only things left besides furniture were his skull and violin. John hadn't had the heart to put them where he couldn't see them and Mrs. Hudson had left them where they were, the skull on the mantle over the fireplace and the violin resting in its case by the window.

"It'll be nice to actually use the table for eating," Mrs. Hudson murmured from the kitchen as she boxed up all that delicate equipment. John had tried but his hands shook so badly he shattered a couple of test tubes. It felt like a part of him was lost with shattering of the thin glass.

He reached into the top drawer of Sherlock's file cabinet and pulled out a cell phone. He looked at it surprised. It was an older phone that still worked. He pressed the numbers of his own phone. It rang and he pressed end before picking up his own phone and redialing. The phone in his hand rang and rang before the voicemail clicked. "If you don't know whose phone this is, hang up."

That deep baritone voice made John nearly drop his phone. He hadn't heard his best friend's voice in over a month and it shook him to his core. He hung up the phone and called it again. He'd take whatever he could get now, any little connection he could dredge up.

Even an annoyed voicemail message.

I hate you when you're gone, I hate you turn me on
I hate the way I need you when I don't know where you are
I love it even more when I find you on the floor
I know you think you hate me but I will always hate you more

"I hate you," John growled. He was back at the headstone. Another month had come and gone. And John had now channeled his grief into anger and eventually hatred. "Damn you and your stupid lying…face!" he finished lamely. "Why the hell did you do this to me?" he raged at the unresponsive, marble slab. "Why the hell did you just go and leave me here?"

He leaned heavily against the cane he'd started using again. "I'm stuck here and it's all your fault. I really, truly hate you."

I never knew until I got a taste
What a waste for what I had been through
'Cause nothing ever really makes that change
I'm so ashamed of what I did to you

"Okay, so I don't hate you. I'm sorry I said that." It had been a week since he'd left the cemetery, shaking with rage. "I just…don't understand why you said those things. I read the autopsy report. Molly used something you musta taught her. She figured out somehow that Moriarty was dead before you jumped. Don't ask me how." He took a deep breath. "What I wanna know is why you still jumped after Moriarty was already dead."

He started to pace. "Seriously, Sherlock! Why did you jump? And why, why of all the bloody things you could possibly do to me, did you make me watch—no, no, I swore I wouldn't yell again." He cast an eye around at the deserted cemetery. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. You just make me so…no, sorry, just forget it then."

I had to let you in to feel that rush
You were too much, way too much
I'll take whatever I can take
Whenever I can take it if it ever comes

"I'm bored!" He shouted at the now nearly empty living room of 221B Baker St. John could almost hear Sherlock's voice screaming right along with his. He got up and threw his cane across the room, striking the yellow smiley face with a bullet hole nose that still adorned the ugly brown patterned wallpaper.

"Bored! Bored! BORED!" He didn't say that out loud but it echoed in his mind. He needed the damned consultant detective around just to feel something, anything, other than rage and hatred. Stupid dead man who screwed him up just by dying.

He called the phone again and again got the same message he'd gotten three weeks ago. "The inbox of the party you are trying to reach is currently full." He chucked his phone down onto the table and let his head fall into his hands. That last thing—his voice—had been taken from him too.

"I have changed my mind." It was the six month mark. "I do hate you. I don't think you're a fraud but I do hate you." He'd stopped using the cane again. His anger was keeping his psychosomatic limp at bay. "I hate that I need you. I hate that the only place I can find you is here in this…bloody cemetery where you can't even argue back. I hate that Donovan was right and we'd be standing over a body that you put there.

"And I hate that it was your own."

I never knew until I got a taste
I'm so ashamed of what I did to you

"You gave me everything and then you just took it all away. You brought me back to life. And then…" John stared down at the headstone. "And then you just killed me right along with yourself." The words came out in a rasped whisper. He turned away his best friend and blinked back tears. "So happy bloody birthday, Sherlock. Ya tosser." He walked away without the cane and only a slight limp.

"Alright, Sherlock. Enough of this." He stood there with flowers in hand. It was the one year anniversary of the death of Sherlock Holmes. "Enough of this being dead, being named a fraud, being believed a bloody fake. It's been a year and no one talks about you anymore. No one cares except for me and I still don't know what to say or where you are or if you can even freaking hear me!"

He took a few deep breaths and was about to rail on but a voice said, "I can hear you."

John stared at the pale face with high cheekbones and pale blue eyes framed by very dark, curly hair and a high collared black coat. "Hello again, John."

"Oh I hate you," John choked.

"Hate is such a boring emotion. Move on and come along." Without further comment Sherlock turned on his heel and walked back towards the path.

"Hang on!" John yelped, scrambling to catch up. "Stop."

Sherlock actually deigned to pause, turning back. John took his chance and struck him on the side of his face, just above his jaw knocking him back. He took a couple of steps before tripping over an uneven patch of ground and backwards, landing on his butt. John felt the instant rush of gratification as he stared down at his not so dead best friend who clutched at his face but still managed to glower up at him. "What was that for?"

"Gee, I wonder… Maybe for leaving me here, alone, for an entire bloody year, thinking you were dead."

"Well, I had to." He got to his feet. "To save you."

"To save me?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade." He got to his feet and stared down at the doctor.

"Is that so?" John asked.

"It is."

"I still hate you for this."

"If you're going to be boring about it then I suppose I can't stop you. Go and be foolish and continue yattering on at an inanimate object with my name on it." Sherlock turned again and this time he wasn't going to wait. "You coming or what?"

"God yes," John said. He fell into step with Sherlock and walked out of the cemetery he never would have to enter again.

Thank you so much for reading this and if you have any sort of opinion on it, please tell me what you think and I'll love you and give you cookies.