Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.

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Deficiency

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John Watson hasn't looked into any mirrors ever since his best friend stepped off a roof in front of his eyes. He didn't think there's anything to see anyway, since he feels hollow, insubstantial. He can't eat because whenever he does, it's strangely nauseating; whatever he puts on his tongue tastes like blood, making him think of dark crimson rivulets on grey stone. The Impossible.

When he finally does look into a mirror in order to shave, a week after Sherlock's suicide (and he wouldn't have done it if weren't for the funeral), words come to his mind which don't seem to be his. There is no voice to them, since the world has not only lost its most brilliant mind but also all sounds and colours with it, it appears, but he can hear them loud and clear as he stares at the reflection which must be his face; he doesn't recognize it.

You look frail without your curly-haired halo, vulnerable. You look smaller than you ever would have next to the tall, lanky man which was like your other half.

There's a strange noise around him while he still stares, and something about the face in the mirror is odd; it takes him several minutes to realize that the noise is coming from him, the only sound in an otherwise mute world, and that the face in the mirror is odd because it's contorted. He is... howling, he recognizes it now, sounding worse than an animal in pain, more like something otherworldy- a shapeshifter, a changeling.

He didn't have any tears before, not a single one during the long years which have been the past seven days, but now he cries open-mouthed until his voice gives out and his chest hurts. The pain doesn't drown out the other pain, the Knowledge. It has been grinding into his mind, his conscious, his unconscious- he was unable to free himself from it, to not think about how Sherlock must have felt, how his existence has ended so abruptly, how terribly lonely he was at the end. John is certain that his friend has been desperate, and it tears at his heart, tortures his dreams.

He weeps until his legs buckle and he finds himself on the floor.

The funeral is surprisingly well attended. Several people notice how John Watson doesn't cry. His face is stony, his expression unreadable, his eyes are dry.

Among those who are present there are several individuals who actually do believe in Sherlock's guilt. For those of them who know who John is and who are watching him, it is clear that he also feels betrayed by his friend; they are not surprised by the lack of tears, it's logical that John Watson does not weep for a man like Sherlock Holmes after what he's done.

Much unlike those who are considering him a friend; Mrs Hudson, Molly and even Lestrade know better. They can tell that the lines on John's face have deepened considerably during the past few days, that he is standing so stiffly because he'd probably break down if he didn't, and that he hasn't doubted Sherlock for even a second.

When Mrs Hudson touches him, she can feel that he is trembling ever so slightly.

The only one who knows that John Watson doesn't cry at Sherlock Holmes' funeral because he doesn't have any tears left is Mycroft Holmes, and he is determined not to tell his brother about it. If Sherlock is watching, he'll notice anyway, since John is the only reason for him to watch at all, and he wouldn't miss something like that.

The next time John Watson looks into a mirror, he doesn't cry. He still feels hollow, but it definitely is his reflection which is staring back at him. Maybe it's not whole without his curly-haired halo, maybe he looks impossibly small; his face definitely is still contorted with pain from time to time, and he knows that this won't change too soon.

He doesn't know how he's still there when Sherlock isn't, and he wonders if he'll ever be able to move on. At the moment, he has no idea what to do without the other one, and he lacks the energy to think about it. The only thing which he is certain about is that he needs to move out of 221B. The notion of leaving Sherlock's things behind hurts so much that it's ridiculous, really, but Sherlock is everywhere in the flat; John keeps thinking he can hear him, or see him out of the corner of his eyes. It's too hard, too close. If he doesn't want to lose his mind, he needs to escape.

Mrs Hudson understands when he tells her, with a heavy heart. She'll be lonely, and for a moment, John feels cruel. But he can't stay; when he had come round after his breakdown on the morning of Sherlock's funeral, he was more than a little unsettled, and he doesn't wish for a repetition. When he closes his eyes, he can still see (Sherlock) the changeling, the shapeshifter. He needs to leave it all behind. He needs to feel human again.

"I'll be in touch," he promises Mrs Hudson when he leaves. He only takes one bag, can't deal with the rest just now; he intends to take the tube anyway, since he can't face getting into a cab.

When he sees his reflection in a window, he hears those words again, still not his:

You look frail without your curly-haired halo, vulnerable. You look smaller than you ever would have next to the tall, lanky man which was like your other half.

If any of the people from the funeral could see his face right now, they'd be surprised by his lack of tears.

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The End

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I'm not a native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.

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