Chapter Text
WHEN Sherlock died, his loneliness returned full blast. As did the nightmares of the war. The nightmares of watching Sherlock fall combated quite frequently with his time under gunfire, however, and it made sleeping a chore. He didn't want to accept his friend was gone, but reality was awfully difficult to ignore.
WHEN Sherlock died, he returned to his therapist. It did little for him and merely became routine. The only tangible result that came out of it was a visit to the gravestone a month after his death with Mrs. Hudson. He felt like an idiot after, speaking from his heart to a slab of stone. “Don't be dead.” What he said to the grave like it would somehow change anything. It didn't.
WHEN Sherlock died, his psychosomatic limp returned on the worst days. At first every day was a worst day. Eventually, it was just when something especially reminded him of his best friend. A shock of curly black hair of a person on the street, Lestrade's attempts to get him to continue working on cases with him like Sherlock did, or even the sound of a violin. It all affected him so and enraged him. He had lost friends and allies in the line of duty but this was so very different. There was no one he ever met like Sherlock Holmes.
WHEN Sherlock died, he stopped writing in his blog. After visiting the grave and making a pathetic speech which fell on deaf ears, he stopped seeing his therapist too. What was the point? Admitting it out loud to make it real? What nonsense. It was already shockingly real.
WHEN Sherlock died, he lost his sense of direction and purpose. With Sherlock there had nearly always been a new adventure to explore, a case to solve. Even when there hadn't been, one was never far off and it was enough. The excitement and intrigue of exploring murder cases died with Sherlock. He chose to work at the hospital as much as possible instead. He was a damn good doctor and determined not to become useless just because he was sad. So determined was he, it took nearly a month to realize he'd been extremely neglectful of his eating and sleeping habits. Too much like Sherlock. He'd gotten violently ill and then set aside time to ensure he ate and slept on a regular basis. He could do without the reminder of such a loss.
WHEN Sherlock died, he cut himself off from Scotland Yard. Lestrade was unhappy about it but he suspected the rest of the police were only too glad to be rid of Sherlock's sidekick, sole friend, flatmate, or whatever he was called at the time. They all of them believed the massive lie Moriarty spun. The last he'd seen of Lieutenant Donovan, Anderson, and the rest, was when he'd been in Lestrade's office yelling at the man for his lack of faith. They wanted to believe Sherlock was guilty because it was easier to do. They didn't like Sherlock was better than them, smarter and brilliant, and solving crimes sheerly by being himself. He'd informed the entire police force of this, loudly. Load of good it did... The tabloids made up their mind for them. Mycroft knew the truth, but he refused to talk to him or Anthea either. That bastard was at least equally responsible for Sherlock's fate, as Moriarty himself. There would be no forgiveness for such blatant guilt.
WHEN Sherlock died, he didn't see his sister or date anyone anymore. He still saw Sarah at the hospital when he worked his shifts, but she'd learned to avoid bringing up Sherlock after the first time and that he was there only for work. The one person he held on to, even three months on after his friend was gone, was Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't the heart to cut her from his life or leave her permanently. She was who kept him tethered to the flat he'd once shared with Sherlock, no matter how hard it was to remain. The rent was being paid off in its entirety as well, which he suspected was Mycroft's doing, the meddling git.
WHEN Sherlock died, he visited the grave more often than was necessarily healthy. After curling up and sleeping peacefully over the grave one night, he forced himself to stop visiting altogether. That marked the passing of three months without Sherlock. He quit the hospital and started his own investigations because he couldn't take being so depressing and sitting still. A missing dog case fell into his lap and he met a nice woman named Mary. He spent the occasional weekend with her as a method of getting away from the city. He kept it proper though, strictly good friends. Didn't feel much like being his usual “bachelor” self these days, and sought closeness more.
WHEN Sherlock died, Calantha, that's what she'd taken to calling herself at the time, came to him in private, learning of John's recent undertaking. She swore Mycroft knew nothing and then offered to be his source of information. When he asked her why she would help him, he received a smile and several peculiar cold case files as his answer. They had been very interesting and from what he'd picked up from watching Sherlock, he thought he was getting somewhere after several weeks passed. “The Woman” showed up and created quite the distraction, especially when he'd believed her dead as well. She brought with her another cold case from Calantha and far too many memories. Together they figured out how the money was smuggled out of the bank, and together they managed to find comfort in one another. It was how he learned she was as lonely as he, and before she left, she gave him a place to use to escape the flat he was stuck in whenever he needed it.
WHEN Sherlock died, four months gone by, he found a new focus. Calantha came to him with a new proposition, a job offer from the government. It had nothing to do with Mycroft, involved outing traitors in the NSA, and a corruption scheme. More importantly, it gave him a new purpose to focus on. His secondary flat became useful for the cover he adopted. The soldier returned from war a few years ago, temporary consultant to the police, now seeking to be a part of something bigger. It wasn't difficult for those he was introduced to, to believe, and they were excited to have yet another volunteer for their project. He figured out rather quickly the experimental drug the project revolved around wasn't ethical. With a little help from Irene, who seduced one of the computer technicians, he had in his hands the information required to proceed. The project itself had begun innocent enough, but the two placed in charge were as corrupt as they came, and the project devolved into murder abound.
A month passed and it was a struggle to maintain his cover and deal with the constant injections involved in making a “super soldier”, but he was successfully distracted. His latest cold case investigation concerning potential corrupt cops, was put aside when he caught wind of a presence in Cardiff that couldn't be possible. An explosion initially believed to be a gas leak. He knew better and so did Calantha, who informed him of a man disappeared from the same flat blown to bits. The man was a wealthy investor in technology, suddenly living in a crap flat. It didn't make sense. The police figured on it being a hit. A man who got in with the wrong people and had lost that fortune with ugly results. He considered the bombing and the lost wealth and came up with a name. Moriarty. Supposedly dead. That was what he'd been informed of. The hardest way. That was how he learned Moriarty still lived.
WHEN Sherlock died, he at first dreaded the slowness of time. Now he needed as much as he could get working as essentially a spy in a job he would never have taken had circumstances been more kind. He lost two weeks because of the insane criminal mastermind, but he felt it was two weeks he deserved to lose. How else could he shake himself from his guilt in failing Sherlock? It also served as the perfect reminder he couldn't play God. What he could do was stop the corruption within the NSA and save a lot of people in the process. His control over the situation was slipping and he knew it though. As the drug improved, he worried they would achieve what they sought and he'd be trapped. There was a method of sneaking the information out. He only needed to find the method. Not being able to find that method and seeing what these people were doing, began the nightmares again.
WHEN Sherlock died, the world kept turning.