As the World Caves In...

He stares at the ceiling.

It's silent in the flat. There's not a sound, except for the quiet tick of the clock on the wall. It should be unsettling. In a way, it is. In a way, it's a blessing.

He sinks lower in the hot water of the bath, trying to relax. There's no hope of it, of relaxing, but he has to do something to retain a sense of normalcy.

Because the world is suddenly not normal any longer.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. His mind is wandering. He doesn't want it to wander but it keeps wandering. There's water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. If people want to call them something else, that's fine, but he's calling them water droplets. Occasionally, they blur his vision. Occasionally, he dashes them away. Most often, they drip off his jaw and into the water below.

Sherlock wouldn't want him to be upset. No... Sherlock thought emotions were irrational, weak. Anything emotional was opposite to his cold, calculating nature. They were just... sometimes there, but always useless.

He takes a stuttering breath, his eyes stinging again. He closes them, taking another deep breath through his nose.

Sherlock would just tell him to stop sniveling. Sherlock did that. Used to-

He quickly wipes away those water droplets, biting his lip so hard that he can taste blood. He presses his fingers against his eye sockets and takes another deep breath.

This is ridiculous. He knows that it's ridiculous. He removes his fingers and looks back to the ceiling. There's a fair bit of cobweb in the corner. He should probably get that down later. Mrs. Hudson hasn't been in to clean because Sherlock complains that she messes up his things-

Complained. Sherlock complained.

Sherlock's dead.

He had watched him fall. A phone call where almost nothing was said and he had watched him fall. A silhouette against the sky, too far away, ever too far away, and he had watched him fall. He had watched him fall and he had seen his body, felt no pulse, witnessed the blood.

Sherlock wasn't coming back.

His vision blurred again and he, belatedly, realized that the choked noise he had heard had come from him.

He can't stay here. He had realized that almost from the moment that he had stepped back into the flat. It was too silent, too sad. Too many memories and the reminders that they were never be another shared memory again-

He closes his eyes again, taking another deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Keep breathing. Good. Fine.

He can't stay here. He needs to go somewhere else, somewhere where the memories can't haunt him, even though he really understands that they always will.

It gets easier over time? As if.

He's seen people die before. Good people. Friends. After time, he had come to terms with it, had learned to accept it. But, it didn't get easier. It got manageable, but it didn't get easier. Not really.

He rubs his nose briefly. Another breath. Still alive.

But a part of him had died at St. Barts and there wasn't any getting around it.

And a part of him is dying every moment that he stays here.

It isn't like he's trying to run away. He's never been one to run away, but he also knows that this isn't healthy. This... this caring lark.

He isn't sure that he makes the conscious decision to think that, those words precisely, hearing it in his voice. He isn't sure he consciously knows when his tears start falling too fast to bother brushing them away.

But, when he notices, he closes his eyes again.

Stop it, just... stop it. Breathe. This isn't helping. Sherlock would be disgusted right now. Inhale. Fine. Exhale. It's okay.

He's fine. He is fine. Because he has to be fine, he has to be okay.

He isn't sure why he's crying now.

Because his entire world has imploded?

Or because he knows that he's not really fine...? That he won't ever be fine again?

I never use John's name specifically, although he is the narrator. We know that a part of John died that day. And we know that John isn't John without Sherlock, just like Sherlock isn't Sherlock without John. John's too lost to even fully be John. So, I don't use his name.

Sorry for the post-Reichenbach angst.

A friend left us earlier in the week. His viewing was today. So, again, I'm sorry for the post-Reichenbach angst. Writing is my outlet and really the only thing that my funny head rationalizes crying over.

Thanks for reading just another addition to the Reichenbach angst. Reviews are welcome.