AN/
This is a bit...choppy. It's meant to be. Anybody who's suffered loss will understand the grey that just won't go away.
A strange reunion fic, a new form of writing for me to explore. Let me know how I did, if you enjoyed it or if it even makes any sense.
~ ~ How to Save A Life ~ ~
We need to talk -MH
The message went ignored. Once. Twice. Three times. Each message slightly different, but all with the same message. But he had nothing to say to him. Nothing at all.
"Sit down. It's just a talk." Mycroft. In his chair. John stared at him, his features barely making any expression. The man in the chair smiled politely, his ever present umbrella lay across his lap.
It didn't take long for Mycroft to simply leave, ignored.
He was adapting. Or at least, he was surviving. His mind was blank, empty, his heart stone cold. She tried to help, to make him smile or laugh but it was as if she was barely even there-a transparent level of his life that he could never reach. That he didn't want to reach.
They were walking home. Another date. Another meal. Another day. She was speaking again, saying words that never reached his ears. His eyes cast to the ground didn't see her. Didn't see the colours or lights around. He was bleak.
A hand on his arm, forcing his attention. He tried, he tried to listen, to hear, to see. But there was nothing. A grey filter on his life. She smiled sadly at him. He returned it without feeling. To his right, movement, reflection in the glass. Colour. Purple. It caught his attention.
The rest of the world moved away, dissolving in on itself. There was only him. He wasn't even aware of her leaving. All he could see was purple. And blue. And black. His colours-his colour. Blue eyes met silver.
Had he been holding something? There was nothing now, dropped, forgotten. Everything forgotten. Everything but him. He stared, he knows this, the colours slowly bleaching back into his life, all coming from the person before him.
Vaguely, he heard his name coming from behind him. She was speaking to him. Worried. He turned his head, but not his eyes. She was afraid. Why? She spoke his name and it came to him in clarity. She was scared. He was back. He would leave her, follow him.
He would always follow him.
Still, he couldn't tear his eyes away. They were still locked in the unholy embrace of a statue. Warmth spreading through him, radiating from his heart.
One, shaky step forward. Another. A third. Increasing in pace, in desperation. It couldn't be...
But it was. They were moving towards each other now, pulled by a gravity of their very own. She got left behind. She would always get left behind.
They arrived at their destination-one before the other, still staring. Still holding sight to that which they had lost. A hand reached up, he thought maybe it was his own. Probably was. It made contact. Solid. Warm. Alive. Shaking, it rested above the thumping of a heart. His heart. Finally, his eyes left their perch, gazing down to where his hand rested on his chest. His warm chest. His alive chest.
Not dead.
Abandoned.
He began to remember how to feel. The lights in his brain began to flicker on, one after another after another, slowly breathing life back into his dark world. His eyes lifted again. He was smiling down at him. Joy and relief in his crystalline eyes.
He wished he could feel the joy. Feel the love that he knew should be there. But all that was there, locked in his cold heart was pain. He was the Pandora's box, and he had opened it.
His hand pulled back, fingers curling in on themselves, a fist forming. Landing. Those eyes-shock! He was stumbling backwards now, a hand reaching up to gently hide the crimson flowing.
Anger! Another fist flying. Another punch landed. More red seeping into his dull, grey world. Holding onto this feeling-any feeling. Another punch and somebody was pulling him back. Arms from people unseen, voices from people unheard. All that was was him, standing there, a perplexed and hurt look on that damaged face.
Then, somebody turned him. It was her. She was speaking franticly, shouting, angry. Not at him. At him. The words were still unheard, still silent in his own mind. He was shaking. Feeling. Everything. Nothing.
She took him home. Cleaned his hand. Spoke soothingly. It meant nothing. His heart was cooling again, the momentary heat of fire dying down to return him to his frozen state. His phone beeped. He checked it.
'There is a valid explanation. Please allow me to give it. -SH'
Ignored. Another.
'Talk with him. Let him say his piece. -MH'
Ignored again. Turn phone off.
He was there, in the morning. Waiting.
"John." He heard it. After so long of nothing, the single word, his name, pierced the vale of nothing. He just stared at him. "Listen to me." Again, he heard the words, but didn't respond-couldn't respond.
A hand on his shoulder-his good shoulder. His eyes raised and looked at the man before him. "I trusted you." he says finally- the first words spoken in so long. His voice is dry. His throat thick. "I trusted you. I lost you. You're gone."
Hurt again, in those eyes. A second hand reaching up to grasp his other shoulder.
"John..." his name, spoken with such regret.
"You never think. You never think what it does to other people. The way you act. The things you do. You never think. You never care to think." He was getting louder, his words rising in volume as the emotions crowded their way into his brain, into his heart. Melting it.
He just let him shout. Let him get it out before speaking, a quiet, uncertain voice. "I will leave, if you want me to. Just let me explain."
"I'm not that person anymore." He finds himself saying, his mind calling out for him to stop. To listen. But so long, so very long without words. He's forgotten how. "I can't-" There's a warmth on his face, trailing down. Tears.
Long fingers wipe the tears away. He realizes he's shaking. His hand comes up to join the one on his shoulder. To hold it tight. To anchor himself. He smiles softly at him, eyes shining and sad.
"I'm sorry." The words caused a cascade effect, bringing forth more emotion, more colour, more tears. And then he collapsed forward, strong arms holding him close, repeating those two words over and over, soothing his drowning spirit.
But then the warmth was gone, the chest receded, only to be replaced by another warmth. Lips on his own.
His world exploded, colour reaching every inch of his being, the warmth of a thousand fires burning within him. He knew then. He knew that no matter what was to come. It would be alright. Because he was here. Alive. His darkness was being chased away.
By his Sherlock.
~ ~ How to Save a Life ~ ~
AN/
As you can no doubt deduce, this was heavily inspired by "How to Save a Life" by the Fray. This is the first thing I've written that's set out like this. As a long time sufferer of depression, this is how I often see the world, colourless, bleak, empty. It often feels like I live in my own world of greys and everybody else is on another plain, another form of existence where all the colour and feeling resides.
That's what I was getting at...how did I do?