A/N: Feeling Destructive
No Particular Order
John starts his morning like he always does-with a slice of toast. Lightly buttered, with just a spoonful of jam. Strawberry. Never cherry or-God forbid-grape. After his toast he brews a cup of tea. Sugar, no cream. John enjoys the bitter cut across his tongue. When finished with the tea, the doctor checks for the morning's paper, reads his blog comments, checks his email, and showers-in no particular order. By this time, John checks his day's schedule: nothing. This is about the time John settles down in his chair facing the sofa and begins to speak.
"You killed me. When you jumped you shot me through and through. I had to watch you, Sher. I had to see you. I couldn't stop you. You killed yourself and you killed me along with you."
This is how it normally starts-with John going on about the pain of the Fall. It slowly fades to lighter topics though, as you will see.
"Lestrade told me they're hiring a P.I. to 'deduce' as you used to."
John spits out the word "deduce" as if it is vermin.
"He muttered an apology and left. He continued on as if it were normal. Oh, Sarah came by my office the other day. Said something about dinner. That should be nice, huh? Dinner with a pretty lady. Also, Mrs. Hudson left a note to meet her tomorrow for lunch. I'm curious as to what this could mean."
John voices his thought, recent events, his feelings.
"This isn't a joke. You can't be serious about this dying business. You can't be dead. Dead is for hum-dead is for ordinary people. Ugly people. Dull people. Dead is for me because bloody hell Sherlock Holmes you shot me dead that day at St. Bart's. I am a corpse and you don't care at all. You killed me and I will get you back for this I swear one day Sherlock I will get you for this."
This is when John will calm down, stand up, and take a short nap.
"Three years, Mr. Holmes. Three years since I have become a zombie. I lost my best friend. You lost me. I cannot take this, Sherlock."
John reaches for the cold metal on the end table.
"Three years you've been hiding."
The cold click of a round being chambered.
"Three years I have been doing this. Living."
"Three years you have been...not been-"
Lifeless metal on warm flesh.
"Three years I have regretted never telling you.."
A twitchy finger.