Dealing With So Much More

A/N: I hope this turns out well! I'm not sure it will be as enjoyable as some of my stories from long ago, but I really do hope this is satisfying. This is a Post-Reichenbach story with a tad bit of John/Molly throughout the first 2, maybe 3, chapters before Sherlock comes into the picture. Although for now, Sherlock's actions remain a mystery. ;) Hope you enjoy!

- Coffee

John slumped forward, leaning on his elbow as he tapped his finger against the warm coffee mug that sat in front of him. This had become a normal occurrence. John would make a nice cuppa and then upon sitting at the table or his chair, he would lose touch with reality and forget it was there. He would sit there at the table staring into space for hours on end before Mrs. Hudson would come up to check on him and snap him from his long daze.

Mrs. Hudson came trotting up the stairs. "John! John, are you here?" She called as she rounded the corner then stopped at the threshold of the kitchen. "Oh dear… Do tell me you weren't staring off into space again. You've gone through a whole jar of coffee without drinking a drop!" she clicked her tongue before picking up the now cold mug and bringing it over towards the sink.

John leaned back then blinked. "I'm sorry? I only just put that…" John trailed off as he looked at the time on his watch. "Oh. I must have. Sorry Mrs. Hudson." Standing up, the small man pushed in his chair and wobbled into the living area. His limp had come back since… the accident. He couldn't ever call it for what it was. A… suicide. The death of Sherlock Holmes. It had broken John. Life was so much duller without Sherlock. As if all the excitement had been sucked up and thrown away somewhere that John would never be able to reach. It was locked away and Sherlock Holmes was the only one who had the key.

Picking up the paper, John looked at the front headlines. It was already 3 years. It had been 3 years since Sherlock had fallen from St. Bart's Hospital. It had been so long and he was beginning to lose hope that Sherlock would ever come home. During this time, he believed. He truly did believe that Sherlock would waltz into 221B with that quirky half-smile of his and call out to John, "I am home!" He truly did believe that Sherlock had just faked it. That he was out finishing a case like the Sherlock he knew and would walk through that door at any moment. But his wish never had come true. John told himself that he needed to accept the truth. Sherlock was never coming back. That door would never open to the sight of bright blue eyes and curly black hair.

At the thought of Sherlock, tears rolled down John's cheeks. He gripped tightly onto the side of the end table that the paper sat on. Little dark grey spots showed up against the light grey paper. He could hear Mrs. Hudson walk in. He felt her hand on his back as she rubbed it back and forth soothingly. She didn't understand. No one did. When Sherlock fell from that building, he took John's heart with him. When Sherlock shattered, so did his heart. It was the worst feeling anyone could ever have. His heart was ripped from his chest and he felt numb. He couldn't breathe either. He was struggling to reach the surface of the sea of depression that Sherlock's death had given him. It was as if he couldn't swim. Or the top would never come. He was drowning and it was such a smothering feeling. John trembled before letting out a silent sob, bringing one of his hands off of the end table to cover his mouth and nose. He couldn't bear it.

Sherlock had been worth so much to John. He just couldn't bear it.

xoxoxox

Sherlock straightened out his scarf before letting out a huff of breath. Staring into the mirror, he realized all of the changes he had gone through. His hair had become exceptionally longer, despite the constant care he gave it. He was visibly much paler and his eyes had lost a lot of the vibrant color they once held.

His eyes never looked as bright and caring as they did when he was with John.

'No. Sherlock, you must not think that way. John is much safer as long as you stay away a while longer. Just for a little while longer.' Sherlock thought to himself. He took a deep breath to compose himself. He did not want to end up crying in front of the client he was working with this evening. Well… not that he ever cried before, obviously.

A knock on the door startled Sherlock out of his thinking state. It was time to get to work.

xoxoxox

John closed the door of 221B before briskly setting off down the stairs onto the sidewalk. He blended in rather easily with the crowd that he managed to be behind. He wasn't exactly sure where he was to go. He had a day off from the clinic as Sarah believed he needed the rest, although she knew very well that John would not be able to stay put after what happened. John wandered aimlessly through the streets of London before he found himself at St. Bart's once more. He seemed to have a habit of ending up there whenever he had no set destination or place to be.

John looked up and stared at the defined outline of the hospital, at the edge of the roof. He could see Sherlock standing there once more. The ghost of Sherlock tipped, tipped then fell… John staggered backwards a bit before harshly blinking and the apparition disappeared. He still wasn't used to seeing memories of Sherlock fiercely combining with reality. It gave John a rather large headache later on though, as he began to think about it all too hard.

John quickly collected himself before he staggered forwards in the direction of the hospital. He needed to talk to someone and if that were to be anyone, it had to be Molly. She was the only one that he could... well, trust. They shared the same affection towards Sherlock.

xoxoxox

John didn't know what exactly to say and Molly treaded uncomfortably around the morgue as she hesitantly spoke kind words and opinions of the dead. "Like many others, I uh- I knew this man," Molly began. It must have been a hard job, working at the morgue. She seemed to know everyone that came in. For any regular person, it would have hurt to see even one person they cared about dead. Molly really was a strong woman. "He was very kind. He uh… Well, he cheered me up when Sherlock, y'know…" Molly trailed off from that point. She had to think for a moment before something came to her mind and made her snap into line. "I-I mean not that visiting you didn't cheer me up!"

John smiled as he strode over and placed a hand onto the smaller girl's shoulder. "Thank you, Molly. You really helped me through a lot." He noticed that she was becoming very red in the cheeks.

"O-Oh, you know," She started with a playful tone to her voice. "You looked like you needed a friend." She lightly patted her hand against his shoulder as well, staring at his eyes. For some reason there was something about his eyes, something that drew her in. It was much different than Sherlock. While Sherlock's eyes were much more vivid in colour, John's were much more intense and defined by the emotion they held. Sherlock's were bright with colour. John's were beaming with human emotion. Something that Sherlock seemed to lack without John.

And at that very moment, something in the two persons just… clicked. They leaned forward, never breaking eye contact. It was a light one, but they leaned into each other where their lips gently touched. The kiss only lasted a moment, but seemed to feel like a near lifetime. They slowly pulled back, dazed a bit before both snapping into reality. They both stumbled back, embarrassment pretty much written all over their faces. There was an abnormally long silence before John broke the tension. He cleared his throat then jabbed his thumb in the direction of the exit. "Ah… hm. Well, I- Thank you for talking with me. I should get going." He spoke rather quickly.

Molly opened her mouth to say something, but closed it with a smile and nodded. She pointed at the body next to her a few times, rather indecisively as she muttered a small, "Yeah" under her breath. "I better get back to…" John quickly nodded, understanding what she meant. "I-I'll see you… later, maybe?" She gave a quirky grin as she played with the end of her hair that was slung over her shoulder in a rather messy ponytail.

John smiled back, giving a nod of approval. "Yeah… Yeah! Sure. I'm free any time, just give me a ring if you want to get a coffee or something nice." He waved Molly a farewell for the time being before strolling through the double doors into the long hallway. He thought back on their actions. It had been 3 years since the man had smiled sincerely, even longer since he had been somewhat intimate with another. One thing stood out to him as well, Molly tasted of strawberry. Well, her lipstick did. He rather enjoyed that.

xoxoxox

Sherlock pressed his face into the palms of his hands. He was rather frustrated. Mycroft had recently come by to give Sherlock some… unsatisfying new about John. Mycroft and his unfortunate surveillance abilities had caught Molly and John doing that thing that regular people do. What was it that they did again?

Ah. That's right. They kissed. In the morgue. Molly was stealing his John! She was taking John from him! Sherlock shoved everything off of an end table – lamp included – in a fit of rage and picked up his revolver, firing at the innocent wall. With every gun shot, an obscene word emitted from Sherlock's mouth. Mycroft closed his eyes, taking a deep breath while his brother let his anger out in the form of a word and a bullet.

"Surely brother, this is not a bad thing." Mycroft spoke gently to Sherlock. The younger brother stomped over the table and into the open kitchen. "Doctor Watson has not been with a significant other for over 3 years. Shouldn't you be happy that he has found someone to love?" Mycroft simply couldn't understand his brother's lack in happiness for his friend. And yes, this was even for Sherlock.

"It doesn't matter!" Sherlock shouted at Mycroft. "He is my John, Mycroft! Mine! No one else's! I have sworn to myself, I will destroy anything that attempted to take him from me!" Mycroft simply sighed at his younger brother's behaviour. Sherlock slammed his hand down against the countertop and looked back. "Get out." His voice was fierce and rather cold. Mycroft was a bit surprised. Sherlock hadn't sounded that cold since before meeting John Watson. Interesting…

"If you don't like this arrangement, then take care of it yourself, just don't do anything rash that would risk your exposure." Mycroft picked up his umbrella. "I don't feel like going through the trouble of creating a whole new death for you that is even more realistic than the last one." And with that, Mycroft shut the door.