This is inspired by the song by Imagine Dragons, Radioactive. Please listen to it while you read.
John sat down on the bench, clenching his small cup of coffee. Bitterly, he could see the ghosts of the past swarming him, threatening to breach their bounds and become real. A tidal wave was slowly sweeping over him, as he felt himself beginning to drown, without any urge to swim. He eerily felt calm, looking around at all of the people, carrying on with their lives. They didn't know anything about what it was like to lose someone. They didn't know how much time they would ever get, or how grateful they should be for each seconds. They didn't know the sense of panic he felt the day that Baker Street had an explosion, the utter terror as he realized that he might have left his friend to his fate. They didn't know…They couldn't know…
Taking in a deep breath, John moved his lips softly, no word serving to escape them. Everyone had felt so sorry for him, offering him flowers and gentle hugs. He didn't care that everyone thought that Sherlock had been a shag buddy—he didn't care that the world thought the most brilliant mind that would ever exist belonged to a fraud. In the end, that had been what killed Sherlock, and deep down, John blamed himself. If he never had told Sherlock that it mattered, then the fall wouldn't have happened. He'd have the chemical burned hand to clench, the swish of the trench coat to watch, and the adrenaline of….well, even now; John couldn't bring himself to say it.
He walked down the long path, feeling the grass crunch under his feet. It was a soft yellow shade, almost looking golden as a result of the recent draught. Though it continued to resist, fighting until the very end, and waiting out for the precious drops that would be rejuvenating life. John held out his hand, waiting for a few droplets to fall, as the sky was painted bleak with grey. None did come though, and he continued his walk until he reached the grave. Two indents had been made it front of it from John's feet; it wasn't uncommon of him to visit several times each day.
"Sherlock…," He forced a smile, pulling out an envelope, "Mycroft came by with...with a case. There's this woman, nice old lady…You like old ladies, right?" His voice cracked, and he glanced up at the sky for a while.
The sky stared back down at him, grim and imposing. Straightening his shoulders unconsciously, he fiddled with the file again, imagining that Sherlock was listening intently from the grave. Of course, John knew that Sherlock wouldn't be down there; he belonged among the clouds, where nothing could crush his spirit.
"You…You said that they made good security systems. Anyways, she got this odd package. Two ears. Human. And before you ask, they're not the kind that you can find in a lab…I made s-sure of it. So, er, if you could take the time to…to give us any leads…Lestrade and your brother would appreciate it."
After a moment's pause, John closed his eyes. Dim blue specks appeared in front of him, earnestly flicking about. It must have seemed insane, but John cherished these visions of times long gone. Sometimes, if he stretched out his fingertips, he could feel the coarse fabric of his coat. Yet as soon as his eyes opened, the mirage would vanish, and his heart would tear into two. He was completely alone.
He quietly set the folder down on the grave, staring at the inscription. It haunted him. In the middle of the night, he could see the words. Words that fueled the fires—that seemed to support that his friend, who had been so wonderful and magnificent and so….John sighed, biting his lip. All of the things they had done together flashed by his mind, seeming to further his resolve. Glancing into his pocket, the muzzle of the British Browning AI looked back up at him. Could it be the right thing to do?
Shoving his hands down into his pocket, John shivered with memories of Afghanistan. His friends falling down so quickly, bleeding so much, and broken hearts from home receiving those awful messages. He'd vowed to avenge them, and he succeeded with it. As London was a battlefield, how would this be any different? Sherlock would do it for him, he would have thought…He had said that alone was all he had; that it protected him.
Somehow, John didn't feel very protected.
A bitter wind seemed to be howling through his very soul, gripping him at the very core. It was all gone. It was dust and ashes, but only one thing mattered. A new purpose had risen through the flames of pain, like the rebirth of a phoenix, and ignited him at the core. Sherlock's…John gulped; he still couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence. They said that time healed all wounds; no one ever mentioned the ugly scar that it left behind.
John hadn't been at the flat in months. Carefully, he climbed up the stairs one by one, nearly sobbing when they creaked. His hands were shaking, partially from sadness, yet also from excitement. A feverish insanity had spread within him, covering him until he really couldn't care anymore. A genuine yet psychotic smile spread across his face as he saw Sherlock's messy desk.
"Sherlock, I hope you don't mind, but I'm borrowing some things!" He shouted, listening to the words ring around the dead flat.
Nothing happened; the sky didn't bend down to swallow him. No one seemed to care, and even the dust covering the place was mainly undisturbed. Boxes filled with science equipment sat in the corner; Mrs. Hudson thought he had dropped them off at King Edward IV High School months ago. Chuckling manically to himself, he dug through the drawer of special things that Sherlock had owned. In his mind addled state, John didn't even notice that Irene Adler's phone was missing from the collection. All he cared about were two small jars, filled with pills, safely inside.
"That'll be ten quid, Miss…?" the cab driver asked, careful not to turn his head around.
"Riley," the ginger stated absentmindedly, playing with her phone, "Soon to be Brook, however. Of course you've heard of me. The girl who figured out the idiotic Sherlock Holmes. May he rest in damnation."
Clenching his fists slightly on the wheel, the man started to drive. A cheery smile soon slipped onto his face, as he drove past the lofty St. Bart's, practically marking the zenith of his sight. Everything seemed hazy and dream like to him; Kitty Riley sat in the back of his cab, completely oblivious, and bragging about her own accomplishments. The recorder, he noticed, was still clipped onto her leg. He grinned in approval; he would love to be able to hear this over and over again.
"Hey, this isn't my stop!" Kitty blurted out, tucking a loose strand of hair into her braids.
"You're right, miss," the driver said, reaching underneath him with purpose, "Your stop should have been a long time ago. And I'm going to fix that, the way that he would have wanted it done…Let's go have a little chat, shall we?"
Blankly, Kitty began to reach into her purse. John broke out into a fit of giggles, looking at her. She seemed to naïve and stupid, he reasoned, that it was an insult to Sherlock for her to have been the first. But as she started so much of this, John thought it would be fitting to prove to her that she wasn't anything special. Repeating crimes might not have been interesting, but it was comical to John. Kitty should have read the papers; she should know what was coming next.
"Go inside," John ordered, grinning like a cat as he lazily pointed his gun at her, "Unless you prefer that decorate the inside of my cab red. I think the color would do nicely, don't you?"
"What do you mean?" Kitty said, her skin turning pale and her hands shaking, "You can't just shoot me! It's against the law, you daft man! Put the gun down, and go back to whatever insane asylum you just escaped from. Unless this is a trick? Rich always was a funny man. Oh my god! Is he proposing to me at gunpoint? Hmm…Bit thriller, but I like it. It has a good plot."
Rage gripped John, as he forced himself to nod calmly. It was better to let her realize her fallacious thoughts later on, he decided, as to result in more tears. She should have to cry for every word that she had ever uttered against his friend. She could cry blood, John decided, and even then her death could not be prevented. His lip quirked upwards; it was true, as they had said that it would be easier than taking candy from a baby. The human race was constructed of imbeciles that ran whenever they thought treasure was waiting on the other side.
The only treasure she would find belonged to the Devil. Last John heard, he hadn't been too keen on sharing.
"So Rich is inside then? At the very top of this…abandoned building?"
"Warehouse," John corrected, "They used to use it to make clocks. Fitting, isn't it?"
Kitty stared blankly at him. She wouldn't get the joke until her time had run out; she would be found here the next morning. John would plant some sort of note, another hilarity that he couldn't possibly avoid. Nothing had any meaning besides the red hotness of revenge. Even if they did execute him, it wouldn't matter; surely, Sherlock would be waiting for him on the other side of any punishment they could possibly inflict. Letting out a carefree laugh, he lead the clueless lamb into the slaughterhouse, hearing the doors slam behind with a definitive bang.
She climbed up the stairs eagerly, straightening the smallest crease in her skirt.
"Do I look alright?" Kitty questioned, staring at John casually, "I mean, this only happens once in a lifetime, doesn't it? I ought to look my best."
"Once in a lifetime…," John echoed, unable to bite back the maniacal grin that was creeping up his face, "I've seen thousands of stiffs, Miss Riley. You'll be one that I'll be most certainly happy to see. Overdue, as well…"
Kitty laughed superciliously, tossing her braids back, "Rich hired someone very good. If I didn't know better, I would say that you called me an attractive corpse! Well then, let's get on with it. All the world's a stage, and I wouldn't miss this for anything."
Nodding, John followed her up the stairs, closing the door softly behind them at the very top. Oak was peeling—the house wouldn't last for much longer—yet the brass doorknob still managed toclick and lock the two of them in. A single chair sat in the middle of the room, the blue paint long since worn off; it wouldn't have been out of place at a child's tea party. The rest of the room was mostly bare, aside for scrawling writing covering the wall. Paint still stained John's fingertips.
"You…repel….me…," Kitty whispered, her face uncomprehending, "What's that supposed to mean?"
John shrugged his shoulders slightly, drumming his fingers a bit on his leg. Every other day of his life since Sherlock…since it had happened, he had limped his way around. Today, however, he managed to walk without even thinking about it until now. Surely, this had to be a sign; a sign that he was doing what was right. Somewhere, Sherlock must have been smiling down at him, nodding his approval and consent.
Insanity has a way of its own survival. His mind teemed with ideas of exactly what he could do right now. John could grab the metal pipe in the corner and bash Kitty's head in, staining the floor red. He could rape her until she screamed and shove the poisonous pills down her throat. John could grab her pretty little neck and twist it, refusing to let go until she went slack. A million possibilities ran through his mind, until Kitty's words from earlier came back to him.
All the world's a stage. Snickering to himself, John couldn't help but wonder if Shakespeare would be proud of him as well. Everyone should love him, he reasoned, as this couldn't possibly be anything but the biggest entertainment of the year! It all became clear to him why Moriarty did what he did; he was angry.
John had passed that point a while ago.
"Where's Rich?" Kitty demanded, her eyes darting across the room, "This isn't clever and it isn't funny! It's sick!"
John quietly sipped his hand into his pocket, nodding. Pulling out one of the little bottles, he raised his hand, knocking off the hat and wig. He shrugged his overcoat off as well, making sure that she would be able to know who he was. He wanted her to die in agony, and most of all, regret. He wanted Kitty to regret every even daring to thinkabout destroying someone like Sherlock! If anything deserved punishment, this was it. And as the law required no repentance, John would have to make amends himself. Vaguely, he realized he had become the vigilante type; not a single part of him cared. He was screaming inside for her death.
"You're right," John stated softly, his words filled with a maddened intensity, "It's all very sick. This world is filled with illnesses, and it managed to catch one itself. It needed a doctor…And unfortunately, I've had some very bad days."
"Watson!" Her eyes widened, "I knew it! You too! I'll expose you as soon as I get home! Everyone will know that the Watson-Holmes duo were liars and murderers! I'll…"
"You won't be doing anything of the sort," John chuckled, placing two pill bottles on the chair, "This is how it all started. And this is how it's going to end. I'm going to give you a choice, because you never gave a damned choice to anyone else! You are right though…I am a murderer. You'll be my first victim. Isn't that lovely?"
Kitty seemed stunned for words, comprehension finally dawning upon her, "This…This is twisted…You won't get away with it."
John remained silent, loading his gun, "I think I will, on the other hand. Rich bloody Brook did after all. But not anymore. This ends tonight."
A long pause followed, as John watched his prey examine the two bottles. He knew by heart which one would cause her death and which would cause her life. He had analyzed everything about her, from the hand that she would grab the bottle with, and the lines of reasoning that would cause her to make her choice. After a while, it happened exactly as he thought.
"That bottle? Interesting…," John stated, swallowing the pill from the other, "Funny enough, four other people went for that one."
Sherlock would be proud, John thought to himself. He spent his evening watching Miss Riley die, resisting the primitive urges to rip her from piece to piece. There would only be one murder tonight. That didn't mean that there wouldn't be more. It was all that he could do…All that he could do for Sherlock.