Rating: K+ (-ish)

The Five Stages

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

The five stages of grief, as coined by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, his therapist told him on his second visit. He would get there. It would just take a little while.

The only problem with that was that John had already been through all five stages. And really, all things considered, it hadn't taken all that long.

Of course, the denial had been first. That came when Sherlock fell, when he hit the pavement, when John swore he could have sworn he heard the sickening crunch of bones shattering and organs bruising and bleeding.

Next had come the bargaining. That had taken place with Lestrade, on the way to the hospital. Sherlock had long been pronounced dead. There was nothing that could be done.

They hadn't been able to see him - Molly was adamant about that. Said it was bad enough for her, she didn't want to think about how John would handle it.

That was about the time the anger set in. As soon as he got back to 221 B, with Sherlock's things everywhere but no Sherlock, the realisation that there would never be Sherlock, John snapped. He shouted, he shrieked, he cursed through the red-hot tears. He cursed everything and everyone he had ever known. Every decision that had led him to that very spot. Cursed Mike for introducing them, cursed Sally for telling him to turn and run the other way, cursed himself for not listening. He cursed the flat for being so damn-near perfect and quirky, cursed Moriarty for all that he did. Most of all, he cursed Sherlock. How dare he! How dare he do that to him! Was he even thinking about how John would cope? The selfish bastard!

That was when Mrs Hudson lost a tenant and a loved one, but gained another (larger) hole in her wall.

After he had cooled, rolling his knuckles as he inhaled the scent of Sherlock and gunpowder, the depression took over him like a dark wave. He didn't budge from his chair until the funeral (and vowed never to go back). He was well on the road to acceptance. Until he clapped eyes on the plain black box that held his friend's corpse. A closed casket.

Then, something strange happened.

Denial, all over again. The next thing he knew, he was bargaining again.

And, as he walked away from Sherlock's grave, the depression reared it's cold ugly head.

But the anger, well. The anger waited, keeping acceptance at bay. Well, at least until three years later, when Sherlock showed up on his doorstep.

Then both came with a startling clarity.

Oh, Sherlock was dead all right.

Or at least on the verge of.