When I'm Gone

Chapter 1

John spent days in the flat at first, mostly in Sherlock's room. Everything was too pristine, too untouched, yet there were stories buzzing about in John's head, several at a time, about every sight, every feel, every scent that was still salvageable in this room. He managed to keep the memories alive, even when he himself was dead inside.

No one ever told John that his best friend, his best friend of a little more than a year, would die. No one ever told John that, although he was an unattached man, would come to love and need his flatmate, his detective, his Sherlock. No one ever told him what pain it would cause him to even walk to the flat, back from the plain and simple grave he went to visit every day.

For the first few days, he could muster no more than mere shock at the events that took place. After that, however; he became less of a man, and more of a whisper. He had no hope left. All that died after he saw his best friend for the last time, when he saw Sherlock jump. Every night the same conversation echoed in his head over and over until he fell asleep.

"...It's just a trick. It's all a magic trick."

"Sherlock..."

"This is my note, John."

"What? How do you mean?"

"That's what people do, don't they? They leave a note"

"Sherlock, don't."

"Goodbye, John."

He would wake up screaming Sherlock's name, sweat dripping down his face, tears flowing out of his eyes. He would go to Sherlock's room, sit on the bed, and stay there until morning arrived. He would then go to work at the clinic he found and repeat his schedule. He checked his phone every so often with a gleam of hope and want for maybe, just maybe, a text might pop up from a familiar number, signed with the two familiar letters at the end. Of course, no such luck ever happened, and John was left to waste away, becoming more and more jaded by every hour. Eventually he had to quit his job there, because of his fatigue, mentally and emotionally.

The flat on Baker street remained lifeless for the next few months, as did John. Mrs. Hudson or maybe Lestrade would come over once in a while to check up on John, but no one could ever compete with what vigor Sherlock had. He made the room shine, as his voice would ring and he would dart around the room in excitement, his movements swift and fluid, sudden but expected, proving over and over his love of deduction. No one could ever bring that back for John, and he hated Sherlock leaving him because of it.

The elder Holmes stopped by every so often, to check up on the flat and, well, mostly John.

"Go away, I will shoot," said a dejected John, as he answered the door. He had thought it would be Lestrade again, probably asking to chat about another case, or an old blog entry as he usually did, and so he always had a gun on the front table, never loaded though.

This time, as he answered the door and found Mycroft standing, two heads taller than he, he picked up the gun and pointed it at him. Mycroft simply pushed himself through the doorway and sat down in the chair. His chair. And there they sat for the next few hours. Mycroft got up and left without a comment, and had been back a few more times, a little more of a conversation progressing with each visit.

John had begrudgingly come to enjoy Mycroft's visits, more so because it was at least some tie to Sherlock, and not because it was Mycroft, who could easily help him with anything, well, who did help him with everything. He paid the rent for the flat, since it was no question John was not set on getting another job, and although Mycroft had tried several times to make John the working man he was before the Fall, he knew it would be a lost cause.

"John, I would highly recommend that, if you want to pay for the flat and risk no more visits from me, to get a job again. I have resources that you would be more than qualified for."

"No. I told you before, Mycroft. I had a job. It's gone, and it's never coming back."

"I was considering one that actually...paid off."

"Me too."

"If you ever reconsider," said Mycroft as he got up to leave, "Please do call and I will surely arrange for you."

Mycroft had opened the door and nearly stepped out when John rose and asked him a painful question, one he would rather not drudge up the memories for.

"What was he like, Sherlock, when he was younger? What...happened between you two, I mean-ah-what exactly caused this 'feud', yet you still cared?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with, it would only bring more grief. Goodbye, Doctor Watson." and he stepped out, wondering how he would answer John's question without bringing himself to mourn his brother's death, the death of their relationship, that is.

Sherlock woke up that morning on a train back to London with such fear that he caused alarm to the other passengers. Normally, he would have booked himself a suite, but he was feeling lazy the night before, and did not feel the need to ring up his brother for the money.

He had just been dreaming of the Fall, the day that proved that Sherlock Holmes did indeed have emotion. He felt fear and pain and loneliness, even while on that last phone call with John.

'Well, I suppose it would be called loneliness,' he had thought to himself, as he really did not know what constituted as "togetherness" versus "loneliness".

"Sorry, sir, but is this your phone? You appeared to have dropped it. I only heard it ringing now and-,"

"Yes, that's mine." Sherlock cut the woman off and took the phone, and checked it, only to receive three texts from the Woman (nothing important, mind you, just a "good-morning" and two other needy texts), and a phone call from Mycroft, probably asking him to come back for the sake of John's sanity. Oh Mycroft, how could he not know he could never see John again. Well, at least not up close. But that was why he was going back, to see John, from afar. He knew the temptation would be too great if he was in the same flat area as him, so he got Mycroft to rent him out a flat two streets down from it, so he could be at a distance, but still in a good area.

He got up and went into one of the bathrooms, locked the door, and called Mycroft. After two rings, the voice on the other end picked up.

"Hello, Sherlock. Your train arrives today, and I suppose you need some sort of transport?"

"Yes, that would be good."

"John asked about you yesterday."

He never did put anything lightly, always getting to the main point of the conversation, never skirting around the topic. This particular topic made Sherlock's stomach drop, out of fear or longing to see his friend, his only friend, again, he did not know.

"Oh, yes? And what about? Wanting to know perhaps why he hasn't been terrorized by any of Moriarty's henchmen? Maybe because I took them all down?" he said with such agitation that anyone else would be so eager to know what possessed him to do such a thing.

"No, it was about us. Or rather, what happened between us."

"And what did you tell him?" said a now worried Sherlock.

"Nothing. I told him nothing. I figured, once you got back, that you would tell him."

Sherlock could almost see the smirk on Mycroft's face. Of course he would want Sherlock to tell John of their "falling out". Of course he would want Sherlock to tell John, first hand, why he became so inept at caring.

"I hate you Mycroft."

"Why?"

"Because you care."

Those were the three words that started the everlasting enmity between the brothers, the three words that started the everlasting frost on Sherlock's heart. The ice had thawed when he had met John, but soon after the Fall, he built up the barrier once again, and deleted all unnecessary thoughts that, until quit recently, were all John.

"So...you figure that I'll talk to him again."

"If there is nothing preventing you, like you say there is not, I suggest you talk, yes."

"No."

"He cares, Sherlock. Still. I don't know what possessed him to take such a liking, but he's strikingly loyal. Please do tell him, for his sake and yours."

"I can't, Mycroft, you know that perfectly well."

"If Moriarty's...posse...is out of the way-"

"They are. I assure you."

"Then I see no reason for you not to see him again. You still care for him too, I can hear it in your voice now."

"I don't care. I just want to go back home to London is all."

"And what makes it your home, Sherlock? Ponder that."

There was a click on the phone and a tone, and that was that. Sherlock was left there in the stall to think about John and what pain he may have cause him these past three years.