The Three Things John Didn't Do After the Fall and the One Thing He Did

The Skull:

"What should I do with this, John?" Mrs Hudson called out as she held up the skull. She had been helping John clean up the flat after Sherlock's fall since Sherlock had left everything to John in his will. It was a project that John wasn't even able to start by himself nonetheless proceed with. Everything was still so surreal for John, who kept expecting for Sherlock to walk into the flat at any moment. Every time he tried to start, he wound up breaking down and being unable to continue. When she stumbled across him curled up in a chair and crying his eyes out, she took it upon herself to help him get through this. They made a pact, and Sherlock's death – no matter how painful it got – served as a solidifier between the two of them.

"Leave it," John said after glancing over at it.

Mrs Hudson frowned. "It's a bit crude, isn't it? I can't imagine why-"

"Leave it!" John snapped a bit more loudly than he intended.

Flinching, Mrs Hudson quickly set it back down on the mantelpiece. She wiped her hands on her dress and frowned. It was the frown she always had when she knew that John was being pushed a bit too far or was in too foul of a mood for it to be healthy. "I'll go make us a cuppa, shall I?" she inquired rhetorically before hurrying out of the flat.

John looked back over at the skull and felt his heart break once more. He was miserable without Sherlock there in the flat, talking incessantly about how boring everything was or about whatever case they were working on at the time. Hesitantly, John reached forward and ran a finger from the frontal bone to the occipital bone. He carefully picked up the skull and examined it. This had served as Sherlock's only friend for years – the only thing that would listen to him until John came around. Plopping down on his chair, John held it gingerly. His eyes started to tingle and feel warm, his throat was tight, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

"You stupid bastard," he muttered, feeling a tear roll down his cheek again. "You stupid, fucking bastard. How could you? How could you leave me here? How could you make me watch that? Me, Sherlock!" The skull stared at him with empty eyes. Swallowing hard, John closed his eyes a moment and shook his head. He pressed his lips together and gazed back down at the skull. "You took that fucking case because of me, didn't you? The case with the Witherspoons," he clarified as he caressed the temporal lobe. "You took it to get me out of London because I needed it. I needed the break –one last moment for us to be together without having to worry about the media or Moriarty. So that we could just be what we were always supposed to be, had I not been stupid enough to make us famous with my blog or you had not been stupid enough to take up arms against Moriarty." Taking in another shuddering breath, John responded, "And that money you made – that you had insisted on making even though you never cared about it before. You didn't spend a cent of it for a whole month and a half. Left me enough to keep me at 221B for the next three years without having to get a new flatmate." Taking in a deep breath, John let out a broken sob. "You fucking knew the whole time! You knew it, dammit, and you didn't tell me. You promised me! You promised you would turn to someone when you needed help, and you swore that you didn't break promises. So why didn't you do it, Sherlock? Why?" His voice broke as he screamed at the skull.

"John?" Mrs Hudson called up from downstairs after a moment of deafening silence. "Would you mind coming down for a cuppa? It would do you some good to get out of that flat for a bit."

John hesitated a moment. "I'll be right down," he called back.

Getting to his feet, he gently set the skull back onto the mantelpiece. Maybe Mrs Hudson wouldn't understand it – why John couldn't let something as grotesque as a skull go – but it was something that had been dear to Sherlock. It was what Sherlock had turned to for all those years that John wasn't there. It was what he talked to when he felt like no one else would listen. When he felt like no one else would understand. If there was ever a time that John needed a friend like that, it was now. Patting the top of it, John shuffled off and down the stairs in order to drink some tea with Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock's Grave:

Every morning, John went out jogging. After Sherlock died, he couldn't go running about London chasing criminals anymore. However, he wasn't going out because he needed to keep fit. It was a moment of peace that John needed every morning. It was a moment to himself where he could just be alone. Honestly, it was a relief. He didn't have to keep a smile plastered on his face for Mrs Hudson's sake. He didn't have to deal with Mycroft's random calls on his mobile phone – none of which he would answer. He didn't have to worry about Lestrade randomly popping in to check up on him, although John was pretty sure that Lestrade did it mostly because Mycroft ordered him to.

And every morning, John would run far enough to go to the cemetery Sherlock was buried in. Every day, he would hesitate outside the gates. He debated if he should go inside or not. Whether he should go visit Sherlock or not. But without fail, John would keep jogging by. He couldn't go visit that gravesite just yet. Not yet. Maybe someday he would be able to. He would be able to look at those two words sitting on the stone and be able to visit what was left of his flatmate – his best mate – his other half. But it was still too fresh. It hurt too much to even think about it, nonetheless actually do it.

And every morning, John hoped that there would come a day when he would be strong enough to go inside. Strong enough to stand in front of Sherlock's grave. Perhaps even strong enough to tell Sherlock everything he thought and felt for once. Or, at least, a bit of what he felt and thought.

But it was never that day.

Nor was it ever the next.

Suicide:

He sat in the silent flat, staring down at the gun in his hand resting on his knee. Throughout all the shit John had survived, this was the first time he ever thought about taking the easy way out of life. But he just couldn't stand it anymore. Everything about this flat reminded him of everything that could have been – of everything that should have been. The promise of a future together, no matter how outrageous or dangerous it would be, had been everything hat John wanted out of life. With their age difference, he had always assumed that he would die well before Sherlock ever would. He never expected to have to deal with this kind of grief and longing.

Once again, John looked around the flat. The only issue was that he could only see everything that had been. He could hear the gunshots from Sherlock shooting the wall; he could see Sherlock sulking on the couch as he waited for another case; he could hear Sherlock complaining loudly about John's laptop; he could also hear Sherlock playing the violin as he looked out the window at London; and he could smell the different chemicals that used to fill up the flat as Sherlock worked on his different experiments. Everything that used to make this flat utterly chaotic was also what made the flat home.

The gun weighed heavy in John's hand as his fingers automatically shifted across the metal. So this is what it came down to – this is what it took to break John Hamish Watson. Tours in warzones, invading Afghanistan, watching his best friends die, getting shot, being unable to work as a doctor anymore, coming back to London only to know no one and trust nothing, and John had survived all of it. Every single last thing. But this had become too much for him. He couldn't handle the pressure any longer. This pain was unbearable, and John would just sooner no longer be able to bear it.

But what about Sherlock?

The thought crossed his mind without any warning, and John was puzzled by his own feelings. What about Sherlock? He was dead. There was nothing more to that.

Doesn't he deserve to be remembered?

"And what good would that do?" John yelled at himself as he leapt to his feet. "What good does it do just for me to remember him? No one else will! No one else cares! They all think he was a fraud. And there's nothing that I can do to convince them otherwise. I know. I've already tried."

And yet he knew better. He knew that Sherlock did deserve to be remembered – remembered by someone who knew him and loved him. If John died, who would speak out against the ignorant masses? Who would fight to make sure that Sherlock wasn't remembered as a fake genius? Mycroft wouldn't lift a finger. Neither would Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson… No, that thought was laughable. She could hardly be expected to stick up for Sherlock, no matter how much she believed in him. So the responsibility fell entirely on John.

Walking over to the table, John opened his laptop and pulled up his blog for the first time in ages. He typed one very simple sentence – one that embodied what he would live by for the next three years. Hitting the post button, John closed his laptop before heading back into the kitchen in order to make a cup of tea. He forgot his handgun next to the laptop.

Meanwhile, everyone who followed his blog received a notification that he had updated it. All they read was: "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him." No one dared to comment on it.

Leaving:

"Are you sure about this, John?" Lestrade inquired as John slung his army-issued rucksack over his shoulder.

Had Lestrade asked him that yesterday, John could have been uncertain. But the night before, John had finally caved and slept in Sherlock's bed. He had been surrounded by Sherlock's smell. After crying his eyes out, John finally passed out with his face buried in Sherlock's pillow. That night, however, he didn't dream about the Fall – as he always had. Instead, he dreamed out the conversations they would have on John's blog while being in the same room. He dreamed about the thousands upon thousands of experiments that Sherlock performed on him. He dreamed about all the late nights going out to get Chinese after a case. He dreamed about the kisses Sherlock would steal right under everyone's nose – ones that no one would see but would leave John on edge for the rest of the night. And when he woke up the next morning, he finally came to understand that 221B – although filled with all their memories – wasn't home without Sherlock there. He needed to get out of it and get out of the rut of longing for something he could never have again.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he murmured. "Thanks for offering to let me stay at your place, by the way. I actually wasn't sure where I could go."

Lestrade forced a smile onto his face. "It's no problem, mate. Need any help with that?"

"No," John replied. He glanced around the flat once more. "Would you mind giving me a moment? I'll be right down, but I just…" He let his voice trail, knowing Lestrade would probably understand.

Nodding, Lestrade stepped back. "Of course. I'll be downstairs with the taxi once you're done. Take your time." With that, Lestrade turned and left the flat. He exited out onto the street and grabbed his mobile phone. Hitting a speed dial, he heard the line ring three times before it was answered. "Just thought I should call you to tell you that John accepted my offer."

"Thank you, Gregory," Mycroft's voice sounded out from the other line before the call was dropped. Lestrade sighed and tucked his mobile phone back into is pockets.

Across London, Mycroft was sitting in his office. He rubbed his eyes before hitting the call button on his mobile. It rang once before it was answered. "He accepted," he said vaguely, knowing the person on the other end would understand.

"Very well," Sherlock's voice sounded out on the other end. His voice was dead – just as he had been from the moment he jumped from that rooftop and left John behind.

Mycroft knew Sherlock was about to hang up, so he called out quickly, "Do you really think this is wise? Leaving John in the dark like this?"

"It's the only option I have. I have to keep him safe," Sherlock said with a certain finality in his voice. There would be no negotiating this, that much Mycroft knew. Sherlock would die before he would allow John to be caught in the crossfire again. Before Mycroft could say another word, the phone went dead.