For He Was Once A Soldier
...Random sad oneshot? I have no idea. I guess I'm just tired of reading stories where hiatus!John is a wreck. I think he'd be much more...comfortable than that
Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock was not John's whole world. Nor was he his other half, or his lover, or anything else his other friends ("I don't have friends. I've just got one.") seem to think. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, they all check in on him at least a couple days a week, like he's some kind of child who's lost his mother, or a dog who's master asked them to put out food for while he was away. It was humiliating. Mrs. Hudson talked about Sherlock all the time, needling at John to open up, to talk about his feelings, to grieve openly. Lestrade was casual, a breath of fresh air, until he realized the inspector was studying his face with a sort of pitying expression when he thought John wasn't looking, and then John just felt cold and exposed. Molly was the worst; she was jumpy and flustered and walked on eggshells around the topic of Sherlock, blushing bright red and stuttering weepily whenever someone, including herself, brought him up, by accident or design. He didn't need to talk to anyone about Sherlock. He'd saved all his old texts and still had all his blogs and case notes. If he needed to talk about Sherlock, he'd talk "to" the man himself.
He didn't understand why people found it s surprisin whenever he did something normal. The looks he received when he went back to work...he almost asked for more time off out of disgust. Why was it such a shock ("Look, I've got a blanket!") to Mrs. Hudson's system to see John going for milk a day after the burial? They were out, weren't they? Why did Lestrade feel the need to ask how he was doing with that soft look in his eye when they ran into each other getting coffee in the morning?
Brothers-in-arms die. Without casualties, war would be a giant tea party, with all the leaders of the world shouting and throwing biscuits at each other. A soldier didn't curl up and sulk when his bunkmates were killed. There was no point in it, not when there was so much more work to be done, not when there was still a battle to fight. John had said his farewells ("Goodbye, John.") and cried his tears, and he was done now. Soldiers didn't fall to pieces over a fallen brother, and John Watson was a soldier.
Oh, he hurt. He hurt more than anyone could possibly imagine with all their suspicions and nosiness, and he didn't want to talk about it, with anyone, because they wouldn't understand. It felt like he'd been ripped in half, or set on fire, or buried alive. But it wasn't a tangible pain. He was the heart, the heart had lost its head ("What is it like in your funny little brains?"). How could he explain that to anyone? That it wasn't grief he was feeling, but sheer loss? He wasn't mourning a friend, he was mourning an appendage. He could function without Sherlock just as well as Sherlock could operate without him. But the ache was there, and always would be. Everything reminded him of Sherlock. He could hear the man's voice in his head, and he was glad of it, because it was the only thing that made him positive he hadn't actually lost his.He'd felt so lost and so alone for so long that it was the new fine, and he could work with that.
He just wished people would treat him normally. Like he wasn't about to shatter. Because he was fine now. He was fine with the fact that he'd never be fine again.
Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock was not John's whole world. Nor was he his other half, or his lover, or anything else his other friends ("I don't have friends. I've just got one.") seem to think. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, they all check in on him at least a couple days a week, like he's some kind of child who's lost his mother, or a dog who's master asked them to put out food for while he was away. It was humiliating. Mrs. Hudson talked about Sherlock all the time, needling at John to open up, to talk about his feelings, to grieve openly. Lestrade was casual, a breath of fresh air, until he realized the inspector was studying his face with a sort of pitying expression when he thought John wasn't looking, and then John just felt cold and exposed. Molly was the worst; she was jumpy and flustered and walked on eggshells around the topic of Sherlock, blushing bright red and stuttering weepily whenever someone, including herself, brought him up, by accident or design. He didn't need to talk to anyone about Sherlock. He'd saved all his old texts and still had all his blogs and case notes. If he needed to talk about Sherlock, he'd talk "to" the man himself.
He didn't understand why people found it s surprisin whenever he did something normal. The looks he received when he went back to work...he almost asked for more time off out of disgust. Why was it such a shock ("Look, I've got a blanket!") to Mrs. Hudson's system to see John going for milk a day after the burial? They were out, weren't they? Why did Lestrade feel the need to ask how he was doing with that soft look in his eye when they ran into each other getting coffee in the morning?
Brothers-in-arms die. Without casualties, war would be a giant tea party, with all the leaders of the world shouting and throwing biscuits at each other. A soldier didn't curl up and sulk when his bunkmates were killed. There was no point in it, not when there was so much more work to be done, not when there was still a battle to fight. John had said his farewells ("Goodbye, John.") and cried his tears, and he was done now. Soldiers didn't fall to pieces over a fallen brother, and John Watson was a soldier.
Oh, he hurt. He hurt more than anyone could possibly imagine with all their suspicions and nosiness, and he didn't want to talk about it, with anyone, because they wouldn't understand. It felt like he'd been ripped in half, or set on fire, or buried alive. But it wasn't a tangible pain. He was the heart, the heart had lost its head ("What is it like in your funny little brains?"). How could he explain that to anyone? That it wasn't grief he was feeling, but sheer loss? He wasn't mourning a friend, he was mourning an appendage. He could function without Sherlock just as well as Sherlock could operate without him. But the ache was there, and always would be. Everything reminded him of Sherlock. He could hear the man's voice in his head, and he was glad of it, because it was the only thing that made him positive he hadn't actually lost his.He'd felt so lost and so alone for so long that it was the new fine, and he could work with that.
He just wished people would treat him normally. Like he wasn't about to shatter. Because he was fine now. He was fine with the fact that he'd never be fine again.