John stared at the gun in his hands as the blinking clock on his bedside table called midnight. He placed the muzzle against his head and felt the cold metal bite into his temple. Breathe in. Breathe out. He changed positions and held the gun inside his mouth for several seconds. Breathe in. Breathe out. Another position: this time against his chest. Breathe in. Breathe out. He dropped the firearm on the sheets in front of him and leaned his head back against the wall.
Two weeks. Two weeks with a stiff shoulder and a bum leg and nightmares plaguing his every sleeping second. Two weeks of smelly hallways and plugged sinks and scrounging for cheap food. Two weeks of rejected positions, strange looks, and unimpressed glances. Two weeks of failure.
He'd joined up to feel important, needed, necessary. He'd spent years saving people to make up for the gnawing emptiness that seemed to occupy the place in his chest where his heart was missing. And now he had nothing. The one place where he felt like he meant something to somebody had kicked him out. Tossed him aside like the rubbish he knew he was. They found out. Found out the lie that he'd been able to ply others with for years. That he mattered. They found out he didn't. With one failed mission in Afghanistan, he'd reverted back to nothing. Useless. Forgettable.
Even his family seemed comfortable to ignore his existence. He couldn't really blame them. I mean, they were all brilliant. His mum and dad spectacularly gifted scientists and his older sister a neurosurgeon. They were important. Needed. He'd become a doctor, sure. But he'd never amounted to much in academia and he'd been passed over for several placements throughout London. Being rejected that many times…well…the army would take anyone. He'd tried to get together with Harry but listening to her go on and on about the success and marital bliss of their mutual friends was enough to set his teeth on edge and his stomach churning.
He attempted to pull himself away from the thoughts that were causing pangs of hatred through his body. He dropped the loaded gun in his bedside drawer and switched off the lamp to sleep. He'd given up fighting against the nightmares. It was just easier to experience them passively than try to fight his way back. The nightmares always won anyway. Why fight? He'd tried that in Afghanistan and he'd lost. No point in putting forth all that effort for nothing. He surrendered to the nightmares like he'd been doing for the past two weeks.
Mike Stamford. Bloody hell, at least he wasn't the only miserable bloke in London. He was surprised at the changes in Mike. He'd always been a complete bastard during courses. He'd been insufferable and vain. But the guy in front of him was tired and humbled. Guess it happens to everyone. The world shits all over everyone and everything. John smiled wryly. At least the world wasn't ganging up on him in particular. It just couldn't give a rat's ass either way.
The prospect of better lodgings had him limping quickly after the pudgy man. He'd walked into the lab at Bart's and felt his whole life shift around him. Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Infuriatingly brilliant, completely mad Sherlock Holmes. His compass needle in this piss poor life of his. There were frantic chases through the dankest streets of London, jumping over rooftops, lying to the Yard, stealing evidence, experiments gone horribly, awfully wrong. There was exhaustion and starvation and destitution but there was purpose and meaning.
He felt comfortable being slightly invisible to the rest of the world as long as he could mean something to its most interesting inhabitant. If only as an assistant, a colleague, a friend. It was complicated and frustrating as hell and terrifying. But he felt necessary again. He felt like he could breathe.
There were murderous cabbies and busts of Shakespeare and government conspiracies. There were secret societies and origami and encoded messages. There were black eyes and cut lips and sprained ankles. There was a gangly arse with a mind as sharp as steel and a caustic wit that played horrible screeching notes on a beautiful instrument serenading him to sleep.
There were pips. A pink phone. A crying child. Moriarty.
He'd never seen the consulting detective so worked up. For months, Sherlock Holmes had been the very image of self-satisfied loner. He'd found a playmate. Someone just as intelligent. John could see the destruction from a mile away. Could see the danger. He tried so hard to pull the detective back within the confines of society. He'd fight tooth and nail for Sherlock's humanity. His heart. A heart worth saving.
He'd been taken. Strapped to a bomb. The final piece in this game. The last shred of humanity for the consulting detective. He felt fear flood his system at the Semtex. The red dots. The consulting criminal. He felt pride at the Sherlock's show of heart. His humanity. Sherlock had chosen. John mattered. He was his conscience. His heart. John had a purpose and it was too keep that genius human.
He watched with a resigned sense of satisfaction as Sherlock lowered the gun to the vest. Choosing a side. Choosing John's side. Choosing John. John would die here. But he'd die here meaning something to someone. If only just a little bit, he would matter. He meant his flatmate's gaze and felt his heart pump with pride. Purpose. Meaning. At the end, he meant something. He closed his eyes and waited for the explosion to claim him. He felt the pressure and heard the buzzing of the explosion. Wait? What? Buzzing?
John jerked awake as the cold sweat from his skin sent shivers cascading through his body. His body convulsed in pain as the realization settled like lead over his skin. A dream. A nightmare. His fucking mind had betrayed him. Made him think that he mattered. God, how could he be so stupid? Of course it was a dream. People like Sherlock Holmes didn't exist and if they did, they wouldn't be interested in a broken Army doctor with an amputated leg and a shot-through shoulder. Fuck. His mind had been playing him. This whole fucking time. He didn't matter. He wasn't important. People didn't depend on him. He was just fucking broken. Useless. And stupid as fucking shit to boot. At least his subconscious Sherlock had gotten that right.
He pulled the covers back to reveal the stump where his leg used to be. His intact leg looked so lonely on the bed. Just like him. Alone. Forever.
He looked at the bedside table and felt his hand move involuntarily to the loaded gun in the drawer. He took stock of the cold, heavy metal and felt his entire awareness focus around the firearm. He placed the muzzle against his head and felt the cold metal bite into his temple. Breathe in. Breathe out. He changed positions and held the gun inside his mouth for several seconds. Breathe in. Breathe out. Another position: this time against his chest. Breathe in.
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Sorry. This is what happens when I have a no good, very bad day.