A/N: This fic is halfway almost done and already 20000 words long. I'll be posting every Friday. Rating will go up as we move along. I really value your feedback!

Whatever Remains, However ImprobableChapter (1/20)
Rating R (for now)
Pairings: John/Sherlock, John/MarySummary: He was so alone and he owes Sherlock so much, he owes Sherlock his life. The new John Watson is heartbroken but not brokenby the death of his best friend. Sherlock has changed him forever. He doesn't go back to living the way he did after Afghanistan. Sherlock's suicide doesn't make sense and he is determined to find out why. He soon finds threads that might unravel the mystery of the detective's death. Why does it feel like Sherlock is by his side, helping him along? Why is Sherlock haunting him?

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Chapter 1

The Afghan desert had left John hollow and broken. It had been the worst of companions, had trained him to need the adrenaline, to lust after the unbearable heat and to be comforted by the terror of battle. John was broken upon his return to London. Sherlock had been so similar to the war in so many ways: requiring John to jump into combat, giving him a taste of the chaos he craved and allowing him an escape from solitude. But there was one thing everyone was overlooking, all the people who looked at him with pity, looked at him like someone who had been taken in, a dumb pet who had been used and discarded. Donovan and Anderson and anyone else who had ever been humiliated and tormented by Sherlock's brutal honesty felt it necessary to murmur a light: "Ah, told you so. Knew he was a fake" in the wake of his death. And since anyone who had ever met Sherlock was left feeling exposed and angry, John found himself facing many whispers wherever he went.

What they thought was that John took care of Sherlock, sacrificed for him blindly while Sherlock took from him without a thought. What they failed to see was that Sherlock had given John more than John had given him: a life. Sherlock was chaos and excitement and for the first few weeks of living in 221B Baker Street John could not even believe that the magical world in which he was living was one he was allowed to inhabit. He could not believe that he was shooting criminals through windows, chasing madmen across London, jumping into the Thames or being strapped to an amount of explosives that (John's military training reminded him) was usually reserved for decimating an M1 Abrams army tank. Sherlock had granted John access to his life. To others the consulting detective burned so bright that he made everyone pale in comparison-but that is where they were wrong. John knew that, really, Sherlock burned so bright that he could not help but illuminate everything around him, make everything a little more interesting, a little more fun. John had never been braver, smarter or better than when he was with Sherlock.

His entire life had taken shape around the existence of that infuriating, brilliant, gorgeous man and so it is entirely expected that Sherlock's death broke him in a way that the war couldn't have. It is expected that he spends the first week after the fall muffling his sobs in his pillow at night. It is expected that he feels his heart ache against his ribcage, expanding and twisting until he is ready to admit that (despite his years of medical training) "heartache" might actually be a real ailment and one could possibly die from that pain. It is expected that he stumbles through the funeral, not remembering much, almost punching Mycroft, almost collapsing from the emotional exhaustion.

The John before Sherlock would not have been able to continue, would have gone back to the hole-in-the-wall apartment and spent his days walking, sleeping and wishing he did not exist and, possibly, granting himself that one last wish. The John before Sherlock could not have withstood the loss because he had never felt what it was like to have.

"Just so you know, you thoughtless git, it's harder to be alone by yourself once you've learned to be alone with somebody else," he proclaims to his empty living room. His new flat is very grey and entirely sleek and impossibly new and as unlike 221B as he could possibly manage.

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Sherlock had changed him forever. The post-Sherlock John can't help but think of the facts, even as he is crushed by grief: Sherlock's suicide makes no sense. He recycles the thought through his mind a few times to make sure it isn't just the sleep-deprivation talking. He is like a man in an insane asylum, a man thoroughly deranged but held to sanity by one thread, one sane thought and that thought is: Sherlock's suicide makes no sense. He is too tired to know what that thought implicates but it filled him with something akin to happiness. He clings onto it with all he has.

He swishes the sentence around in his mouth like a particularly good wine:

"Sherlock's suicide makes no sense."

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"John! John! You see but, as ever, you don't observe."

"Alright, alright," John huffs, "I'm trying."

He knows voicing his newfound obsession with solving the mystery of Sherlock's death would make him appear crazy-a man thoroughly unhinged by his friend's death.

"John, don't you imagine that maybe you are trying to make this into a case because that would let you hold on to him a little longer? One last case?" his psychiatrist would probably say, "aren't you doing this because the thought of your friend committing suicide is too painful? You want to give meaning to something that is just as it appears."

John would be thoroughly annoyed by that and would try to deduce some cruel things to say to her. Was her husband cheating? Was her daughter getting eloped in Las Vegas? He wasn't Sherlock. No point in telling her about his new case if he had no comeback to her nonsense.

Then there would be Mrs. Hudson. "Oh dear! It isn't decent trying to meddle with the dead. No use trying to make sense of why that boy did anything that he did in his entire life, no good trying to figure out that head of his. Mind, sometimes I thought he was right crazy—"

Yes. Mrs. Hudson would be annoying about it.

And Lestrade would be simple about it, elegant almost. "Mate, I…wish he hadn't done it but…I'm sorry."

"Don't listen to them John. What good is it anyway to consult idiots to determine the motives of a genius? You, while not the brightest of people, are at least smarter than those people."

For the first time since meeting Sherlock, Dr. John Hamish Watson admitts the following to himself: he is a smart man. Compared to Sherlock he is an idiot. By any other standards John is smart. He can solve this.

"Yes, stop flattering yourself. The facts John! What are the facts? What are the irregularities that lead you to believe that this was not a suicide?"

"Right," John said to his sofa, it was difficult to talk about Sherlock's death, "the irregularities…you said to tell everyone that you were a fake," he needs a deep breath before going on, "I know you're not. So that removes the supposed motive for the suicide. So then…why? Why did you do it? There is no other motive. Moriarty was already dead. We could have cleared your name."

"That's it? You're basing the entire case on the motives of the victim. How simple of you. As always you forget the need for evidence. I admitted to being a fake. Why would you think that I'm not?"

"I know you," John whispers to the corners of his room.

"Oh John. Please do keep your day job at the surgery. You're willing to risk this case because you have faith in someone?"

"No Sherlock. I'm willing to risk everything because I have faith in you," John chokes out.

The imaginary Sherlock that has been haunting him falls silent at the display of emotion. John sits still in the dusk, his grey furniture tinted blue by the light from the telly, which he keeps on for company but only on mute. He closes his eyes and imagines some angry notes on the violin.

"See? I knew that would shut you up," he says to the Sherlock that was a figment of his imagination.

No answer. John isn't sure whether or not to be glad.

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"As I explained to you John I researched you in order to impress you. It was all a trick."

"That stuff about Harry is not on the internet."

"The internet? How pedestrian. Why would I bother with Google when I've got Mycroft?"

"Ok, fine. You had Mycroft that time, he can find out anything about anyone. What about everything else?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean. Everything I did can be explained through resourcefulness."

John has to bury his face in his hands to keep from screaming. How is an imaginary version of Sherlock causing him so much grief?

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, you absolute git."

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It's a month before Sherlock's death that John returns to the flat from one of the worst days of his life. He is soaked from the London rain.

"John, how many times must I ask you to hand me my phone?" Sherlock sighs.

John barely contains his annoyance, "I don't know. I don't have supersonic hearing and can't hear you when I'm on the other side of London."

"Oh," Sherlock hops off the sofa, oblivious to his mood, "you've been out."

"Brilliant deduction Mr. Holmes," John sighs, setting some of the shopping on the counter, "you're not the only consulting detective in the world for naught."

When he looks back at Sherlock, something has changed. Sherlock is looking at him with something akin to…sentiment.

"Oh John," he breathes softly, cocking his head to one side, "sit down."

For once John doesn't argue and plops down on his favorite chair, closing his eyes.

"How is she John?" Sherlock asks.

"What…how did…" John doesn't even bother asking how Sherlock knows. He closes his eyes again, "she's fine."

"But you're not," Sherlock says softly, still standing in the middle of the room, eyes never moving from Sherlock's face.

"Go on then. Deduce me. Why not?"

"John I didn't—"

"No I mean it," John snaps, "go on. I want to hear it."

Sherlock sighs. "There is vomit on the sleeve of your jacket. Your breath smells very slightly of alcohol, I could only smell it when you walked closer to me, there is no sign that you've been sick. You aren't pale and you aren't that drunk. So you didn't vomit from alcohol then. Now, you're a doctor so the vomit could be from a patient but you're meticulous, you would never leave the office covered in a patient's sick. Not a patient then. Who would you be around who would vomit? Harry, because she almost drank enough to kill herself but she texted you and you took care of her and when you were sure that she would not die, you left her apartment in a rush, angry. Clearly you had no time to clean up. You went for a drink after leaving Harry's to take your mind off of…it. A girl in the bar gave you her number…"

John cracks open an eye to look at Sherlock.

"Would you like me to stop?" Sherlock asks softly. He looks hesitant for the first time John has known him.

"No."

"She wrote her number on a napkin but folded the napkin before giving it to you. Why? She wanted you to have her number to call her later but she didn't want everyone to see you had her number. She has a boyfriend. A boyfriend who did not know he was dealing with an ex-army doctor when he tried to punch you. You have no bruises on you but the knuckles of your right hand are swollen. Poor man. I wouldn't like to see the shape of his face. He picked the wrong day for bravado."

"How did you know about the girl?" John wonders.

"You put a napkin on the kitchen table with the grocery bag. It has the name of a bar on it, I can't see what's on it because it's folded neatly in half. Why would you keep a napkin if there was nothing on it? No, she wrote her number on it, folded it and handed it to you. You took it, punched her boyfriend and headed out without even thinking about the fact that you were still holding the napkin. It's perfectly smooth where you held it but the edges are soaked by the rain because they weren't covered by your hand."

John is looking at him in awe, Sherlock walks towards him, eyes fixed straight at him.

"Anything else?" John wonders.

"You're upset."

"You're a right genius," John snaps.

"You have your wallet so you could've taken a cab," Sherlock continues, "but you're completely soaked so you elected to walk. Don't sad people do that?"

"Sherlock Holmes dissects emotions," John mutters grumpily, "all done?"

"You have bags under your eyes," Sherlock murmurs, "but I know you've slept adequately in the past 48 hours because we haven't had a case. And you're shivering."

Sherlock grabs the throw-blanket from the sofa, pulls it over John and sits down on the chair across from him. They are sitting in the dark. Thunder roars outside. Rain thrashes against the windows.

Sherlock is silent for a brief moment and looks away from John before speaking. "You were favoring your left leg heavily when you walked in. Your right leg was hurting gain, even though you know it's psychosomatic. You're frightened that it's coming back."

John doesn't say anything. He follows Sherlock's eyes to the groceries in the kitchen.

"And even though you were tired and scared and cold, you stopped to get what, from the look of those bags, can only be the chocolate biscuits that I like," Sherlock says softly, looking down at his hands, "because you know I've been bored and moody and not eating."

Neither of them says anything. Sherlock is looking him like he's never seen him before.

"That Sherlock," John smiles, wrapping the blanket around him tightly, "was brilliant. As always. Absolutely bloody brilliant."

Sherlock seems baffled by the positive reception of his deductions. He fears that he's taken it one step too far this time.

"Elementary," Sherlock assures John, "though I do have the advantage of knowing your habits."

"Still. Bloody fantastic. One look and you knew how my day was without asking," he mutters, "I wish Janette could pick up on that skill."

He feels awkward for having said that his girlfriend should be more similar to Sherlock but the detective only smirks and asks: "Which one is Janette again?"

"Sherlock! You've met her. Three times."

"But they're all so—"

"Boring," John finishes for him, "well at least you'll never be that Sherlock. You might be a lot of things but not boring."

Sherlock smiles. "I'll make some tea."

"You can make tea?"

"Of course I can make tea, John. I'm not a child."

"But you do a brilliant impression of one."

"Very witty Dr. Watson," Sherlock spits on his way to the kitchen.

When Sherlock returns with tea John is just grateful to have something warm to hold on to. He is tired and drowsy and the tea warms his throat and stomach. The rain picks up outside.

"John," Sherlock says quietly and John knows he's being fixed with that smoldering stare even though his eyes are closed.

"Hmmm?" he cracks on eyes open.

"You shouldn't have to do that," he waves a hand toward the puke on John's sleeve.

"Thanks Sherlock. I'm okay."

And then, so quietly that John almost doesn't hear: "You are…you know that I…she doesn't deserve you either."

He doesn't say anything. He closes his eyes and lets the tea warm him. Sherlock really makes excellent tea. He should take advantage of this newfound knowledge.

Sherlock plays something incredibly sad on the violin and it mixes in with the sound of rain like it's meant to. Something that makes John want to cry or else hold Sherlock in a tight embrace so that he can't play anymore. But he's so tired and he can't keep his eyes open.

"John," Sherlock says as he plays, "thank you for the biscuits."

"This is the closest thing to an I love you that I'm ever going to get from Sherlock Holmes," John muses as he falls asleep.