John didn’t go to pieces after he’d gone. Everyone thought he would; after all, Sherlock was everything to him, everyone could see that. They all watched and waited. Fearful. Jittery.
Annoying.
Because John Watson, retired army doctor, had seen many things in his life. Things which woke him up shivering in his own cooling sweat. Friends blown to pieces. Young men with only half a life ahead of them.
Blood. So much blood. So why did they all think he’d fall apart over the sight of Sherlock’s blood as it had spilled out on the pavement? He’d seen it all before. The problem wasn’t the blood. It was going home. Because 221b wasn’t home without Sherlock. And that was the first time he allowed himself to cry.
But he didn’t break. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. For Sherlock.
So they watched and waited and wasted their time. John held fast to the life he had known. That mad, chaotic, terrifying, glorious life which Sherlock Holmes had opened up for him.
He owed him that much at least.
No. John didn’t go to pieces after Sherlock had gone.
But you should have seen him when he came back.
(via heartbeatofatimelord)
