The Suicidal Doctor
(I don't own Sherlock Holmes or the modern day adaptation. I just like to play around in the universe.)
John Watson hadn't called him by his name since the funeral. Whenever he was mentioned in conversation, John would refer to him as 'my old flatmate' or 'the consulting detective' or him. The latter seemed to be used more and more often as the days went by. Soon it was the only way he referred to his old friend. His only friend. Not that John was finally getting the closure that he needed. In fact, refusing to call him by name was probably only making it worse.
His therapist was the first to point out this unusual fact. It had been their third session since, what John liked to refer to as, the fall. John's life only had four chapters now; pre-war, post-war, pre-fall, post-fall. This chapter was worse than anything else he could have ever encountered.
His therapist had been taking notes as he sat and said nothing, a fact that always bothered him. He hated feeling like people could look at him and read his every thought. Though, if John truly thought about it, he hadn't been insecure about it until he came along. She had sighed, looked at her watch, and then at him.
"Are you not going to say anything?"
John had shrugged.
"John, we've had two meetings of you just staring out the window. And our first meeting since, ahem, the fall wasn't very conclusive. How are you coping?"
John had shrugged.
"I need an answer, John."
"I'm coping well enough."
She scribbled more. "I beg to differ."
It was silent after that. John tapped his fingers lightly on the chair then tore his eyes away from the window to look his therapist in the face.
"What do you want me to say? That I miss him? That I still dream about that day every single night when I shut my eyes? That I don't believe that he's gone?"
"How about his name."
It was silent after that. John continued to stare at her, glazed.
"Ever since the fall, you haven't once said his name." She continued.
"Didn't you just say that I haven't been talking?"
"I don't just mean in here, John."
He bit the inside of his lip, a habit he had formed post-fall. "How could you possibly know what's going on outside of here." There was an edge of anger in his voice.
"Prove me wrong then, John." She countered, obviously growing frustrated.
John had gotten up from his chair and walked out. He never returned.
Even three months post-fall, he didn't say his name. It was sacred, like a secret spell that only John knew. The media had quickly moved on to more interesting topics since that day on top of St. Bart's hospital. Mycroft, Lestrade, and even Molly seemed to find some sort of closure. Some sort of will to move on. John had not. He didn't talk to them anymore either, but he was sure they were keeping tabs. Every once and a while he'd see a black car sitting on the end of his street, or the occasional note on his doorstep inviting him to dinner. He never did respond.
Post-fall, he spent his days doing normal, ordinary, uneventful things. Throughout this John would hear his voice in his head.
"I'm so bored, John." He'd whine. "Bored, bored, bored."
John liked to convince himself that he was content
John liked to convince himself that he was moving on.
John liked to convince himself that he was fine.
John was none of these things.
He'd sit on the edge of his bed for hours on end, wracked with insomnia to the point where he could swear he heard the soft squeak of a violin downstairs. The first few times this happened he would rush down, half expecting to see him staring out the window in deep thought with the wooden instrument in his hands.
He was never there. After a while John stopped looking.
John was destroying himself from the inside out. It had started with a single nudge, a single thought.
This was your fault.
He had dismissed it immediately, no way could it have been his fault. He had literally done nothing.
But if he had done something, maybe he would be alive. If he had been a better friend, realized the phone call was staged, convinced him that there were other options.
He would dismiss the thought again. There was nothing he could have done.
"You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home up there."
John shook his head, his voice always echoing in his head these days. John almost despised him for always being right. However, he would have done anything to hear the smart aleck remarks. Or maybe just be called an idiot one more time.
On the year anniversary of the fall, John called in sick. He slipped on his favorite jumper, made tea, and sat in his chair. The pillow embroidered with the English flag was long gone, thrown out the window weeks after the events that ruined his life. He stared at Sherlock's empty seat and let the anger and resentment wash over him. He rarely let this happen, the doctor side of him telling him to move on while the human side of him just wanting to mask his true feelings.
He threw the tea at the mirror that sat above the fireplace. Both shattered upon impact. John didn't even flinch. In fact, he was already standing.
"Why did you do this to me, Sherlock." John whispered. "Why. You abandoned me. You left me. You lied to me."
He was screaming now. "I will never believe that you were a fake. I don't understand why you said it, I don't understand why you jumped. Do you understand what you have done to me? You have destroyed me!"
He walked around the apartment as he yelled, throwing anything he could get his hands on. His soldier past was showing. He was letting his anger consume him. And he would have been lying if he said it didn't feel amazing."
"Now, John.."
"I don't need your voice in my head anymore!" John screamed in response, not realizing how crazy he sounded to the outside world. "I don't need your droning remarks or eye rolling. It's been a year. One full year. Please let me move on."
Only silence followed. Surprisingly, the silence hurt him even more. John's knees fell out from under him and he collapsed to the floor in the middle of the flat.
"Please.." John whispered. "Please, I just want to live my life." He paused. "Actually, no, that's not exactly true."
He sighed, a realization falling over him. He didn't want to live anymore. He couldn't handle it. He just wanted to..
"A suicidal doctor?" He smiled grimly. "How adorable." He got up and walked over to his desk and pulled his small hand gun out of the drawer. It felt perfect in his hand.
John looked out the window. What was he doing? What was going on? He heard Mrs. Hudson downstairs open and close the door, probably worried to death about his sudden screaming outburst. He turned back to the window.
Was this how he had felt standing on the edge of the roof? Alone, with no other way out?
"John.."
"Please, please don't." John whispered. "Please stop sneaking into my brain. I can't take it anymore."
"John, I.."
"No." The whispering was gone. Instead, there was a knock at the door. John tensed. He couldn't let Mrs. Hudson see him like this, completely defeated. He set the gun down on the desk and walked over to the door. He sighed, straightened his sweater, and opened the door.
"I didn't see you as the suicidal type."
John's world froze. He could hear his heart beating in his head. Everything else was silent. For the first time in a year, John uttered a single world.
"Sherlock.." He whispered. There, in the flesh, standing in his doorway. Not in the ground, where he should be. "I.." He let his sentence go unfinished.
Instead, he punched his old flatmate, the consulting detective, him straight in the jaw. Then wrapped him into a hug and let out a choked sob.