A/N: Hello, this is basically a byproduct of my own stress and depression so read at your own risk. Essentially prepare yourself for a very upset John and partaking in a bit of his own wall abuse, but nonetheless I'm proud of this little ficlet so let me know what you think! As I mentioned in the summary this is based off a tumblr post, but alas I cannot find it anywhere. If anyone comes across some fan art of John shooting at the walls in 221B please sent it to me- I'd love to give credit where credit is due. Anyway, I'll stop spoiling it for you now and let you get on with the reading. Enjoy :)
John hated having days off from work.
He hating sitting around the flat, staring across the room at a chair that shouldn't be empty. The chair that was Sherlock's, and the chair that John simply couldn't bring himself to sit in, because that wouldn't be right. He hated the humming silence, too vacant of the clanging of vials or the violin music drifting in from the next room. He hated the lack of chemicals in the air. He hated that it had been nearly a month since he'd found body parts in the fridge. He hated not seeing open books sprawled on the table or papers scattered on the floor. He especially hated making one cup of tea in the morning, so he made two.
It didn't matter that nobody drank it. That was okay.
John had grown to hate the very walls of 221B. Walls which contained so many memories from before. Before, when John had been happy for the first time in so long. The walls remembered a time when a soldier had found his solution, his cure, his home after returning from battle. It had been a place to get better, a place he could see himself staying. He didn't think it would so quickly become a place of ghosts. That the walls would feel like steel bars instead of home.
This wasn't home anymore.
Sherlock had been home.
He didn't know how many hours he'd passed staring at the gruesome wallpaper above the couch. The couch, where sherlock had slept more often than in his own room. The wall, which still bore the yellow graffiti from what felt like so long ago. Even from his armchair John could see the bullet holes, which Sherlock had promised Mrs. Hudson he'd fix.
Now even she didn't want them gone.
Bored! John could still hear Sherlock's voice, could still remember hearing gunfire from the foot of the stairs. He could remember his breath catching in his throat oh god no sherlock is up there who is shooting him oh god no no no…
John looked at the other chair, Sherlock's chair, where he could almost see the detective slumped down and a pout planted firmly on his lips. He remembered being so relieved to find him without bullet wounds, but he acted mad. Sherlock needed that sometimes, because no one else was ever mad, but now John wished he had laughed instead like he had wanted to.
Bored!
The word echoed in John's mind causing the briefest of grins to catch on his lips, but then it was gone and there were tears instead. Angry, frustrated tears. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd gone to his room to fetch his gun. The gun which had accompanied him and the most clever man who ever lived on so many occasions. This gun had been there since the beginning. It had been with them along every street of London they'd run down, been pointed at Jim moriarty's head as well as his own, been aimed at bombs and homicidal taxi drivers. It had been there through everything. It had touched Sherlock's hands, been inside his pockets, saved his life a few times.
All of that was for nothing now though, John figured. Not even he could put off the inevitable, though he had tried.
Oh god, he truly had tried.
The man gritted his teeth, staring down at his pistol with shaky hands, gripping it with white knuckles. He always made sure it was loaded, just in case he needed to leave in a hurry. In case he was needed. In case Sherlock showed up and whisked him away like he always-
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Gunshots filled John's ears, gunpowder blackened his hands. He suddenly hated that yellow smiley face, more than was probably rational. His arm jerked each time he pulled the trigger, aiming at the wall, punishing it for reminding him every day of what he had lost.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Tears continued down the man's face. The sudden noise brought back memories nothing else could. Sherlock's voice filled the gaps between each gunshot.
Bang. Bang. Click.
John pulled the trigger again, and again, but the gun did not fire. There was nothing left.
Click. Click. Click.
He sobbed and pleaded with the object in his hands. Please just one more shot, I need to hear it again, his voice, anything, please... He had no idea if the words were in his head or coming out of his mouth. His ears were ringing and suddenly his knees were hurting, and he realized he'd crashed to the floor. He crumpled, curled up inside himself. Knees bent awkwardly beneath him, doubled over with his nose inches from the floorboards. The floorboards Sherlock use to pace back and forth on. The floorboards he tried to so quietly walk over in the early hours while John was sleeping, but he always heard. He always knew Sherlock was awake and he could still hear that creaking every night because sleep never came to him anymore. John heard himself crying now- really crying for the first time since Sherlock died. The sound was muffled, and sounded a hundred miles away but he knew it must be him because he was alone.
He was always alone.
And then he barely noticed Mrs. hudson bursting through the door. His ears were filled to the brim with echoing gunshots and that short glimpse of Sherlock's voice.
Bored!
John!
Bored!
All he could hear was that and his choked sobs, which he tried and failed to stifle because what was the point? Who cared if his landlady saw him on his knees, clutching a haunted pistol and trying not to breath because Sherlock breathed this air once and I can't, I just can't anymore…
John was distantly aware of a touch on his shoulder. It was warm, comforting, but it didn't matter. He was permanently cold and Mrs. Hudson was saying things to try and warm him but he couldn't hear. How could he hear when Sherlock was still in his head?
John.
The doctor didn't try to stifle a sob as the word- his own name came to him in Sherlock's voice. It was the last thing his mind produced and his ears stopped ringing and he could finally hear the elder woman crouching over him telling him it's okay, taking away his gun, asking him what had happened.
He couldn't respond. He didn't have enough air in his lungs or the right words in his mind. All he had were sobs and shaky shoulders and damp cheeks. He had Mrs. Hudson's warm hands which were touching him and her warm words that he couldn't hear. He had an empty flat that never felt empty, and a newly returned limp and an aching hand. He had a gun with no more bullets. He had memories and distractions but he didn't have the only thing he wanted. The one thing he needed.
He no longer had Sherlock Holmes.