A/N: Hello fellow Sherlockians! This is my first Sherlock fanfic! I hope you all like it!
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall;
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King's horses
And all the King's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again….
The old children's tale that John Watson's mum used to read to him each night comes crawling back into his mind, just as frequently.
Only he can't decide who Humpy Dumpty is in his tale… His best friend, Sherlock, broken on the pavement, never to be made whole again…or himself…cracked and fractured, damaged beyond repair.
He lay awake in his flat at 221b Baker Street, just as he does every night; lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, contemplating this horrid children's tale.
No matter how knackered he was, each night he lie awake….thinking…thinking…
….and each morning brought no relief.
Every day it's the same motions…he barely has to think, his body just reacts, as if on auto-pilot.
He gets dressed in a flannel button down, and jeans….. Sherlock must be Humpty Dumpty…he is after all the one physically broken and irreversibly taken from this world.
He greets Mrs. Hudson on the way out of the flat.
He gets his coffee at the café down the street….. No, it must be him, he is Humpty Dumpty…he is the one that has to deal the after math. He is the one cracked…
Thousands of faces pass him and he doesn't register a single one.
He goes to work, and buries himself so deep in paperwork he can't think straight.
He likes it that way.
Some days he eats, some days he doesn't…he doesn't notice the difference either way.
It's after dark by the time he tidies up his desk and puts his files away for another day…. Why? Why would he do this? That selfish twit!
He chooses to walk home….a taxi ride would only get him there all the sooner, and he likes to stay away from the flat as much as possible… I miss him.
He enjoys the warmth of the flat as soon as he walks in, and then feels guilty for it….Sherlock is dead. Alone. Cold in the ground.
He has some cold tea and crumpets that Mrs. Hudson must have left for him ages ago.
He doesn't even taste it.
It's just another day.
Just another piece of sustenance to hold him over until tomorrow.
Why couldn't I have talked him out of it? John thought. It's my fault; I should have been able to do something. Not just stand there helplessly from the ground, yelling his name, as if that would help stop his fall.
It didn't.
In the end, he did nothing.
Sherlock on the roof top.
Sherlock falling.
Sherlock bleeding.
Sherlock gone forever.
Sherlock….Sherlock is Humpty Dumpty.
In the end John couldn't put him together again.
In the end John couldn't even hold himself together.
Cracked.
Fractured.
Damaged Beyond Repair.