{{Sorry if this is kind of disorganised; I wrote it on my phone and it's my first fanfic anyway. Plus I think Sherlock's chain of thought would be kind of disorganised anyway... Anyway. Enjoy! And please R&R, whatever that means.}}
Waking up, I yawn. It's a reflex that I can't help; one I'd much rather be without. Well, I guess I could help it; I could start sleeping again. But that's something I can't help either.
Not sleeping. It started about, no; exactly a year ago today.
I get out of bed and walk towards the door, then stop. Another pointless day. I'll probably have to go and see Mrs Hudson. Go visit Molly. Lestrade.
I go back to bed.
I don't want to do that. Be sociable, that is. I can't do that anymore.
Not without him.
Not without my blogger.
Not without John.
It happened 6 months after I faked my own suicide. A week before I was going to return. I was living in rented accommodation, courtesy of Mycroft, biding my time, ignoring the news and taking what most people would call a sabbatical.
John, on the other hand, was contemplating suicide. Of course, considering I wasn't there at the time, I don't know exactly what happened. But Lestrade, who interviewed Mrs Hudson afterwards whilst trying to establish whether or not anything suspicious had been involved, managed to piece together a broken chain of events to determine his movements this time last year.
The night before, he slept in my chair, as he has been doing for months. He woke up in the morning, late. About 8:00 which I guess by some people's standards isn't that late, and I don't know how John changed in the six months after my staged death, but before, for the John Watson I knew, 8:00 was quite late.
He had breakfast. Mrs Hudson didn't know what he had eaten, but the autopsy report showed it was tea. Lots of tea. And bread. No butter; he didn't go out for weeks at a time after I supposedly died. I guess that I am not only responsible for his (genuine) suicide but also his deteriorating health during the weeks as he spiralled down in a cycle of depression and anger and doubt towards the apparently inevitable conclusion; the taking of his own life.
I don't want to know what he felt like.
I don't think anyone wants to know what he felt like.
Least of all me.
He then dressed, and tried to call Harriet no less than 26 times on his mobile, the same one that he had lent me on the day we met, drunk scratch marks and all.
It turns out she had accidentally left her phone in a cab.
He then told Mrs Hudson that he was going out for a walk. He didn't say where to, and apparently didn't look her in the eye.
He walked to the hospital to see Molly. She never really told anyone what he said exactly, but according to her, it was a combination of apologising on my part and asking if she could make sure he was buried next to me.
That's the worst part, in my opinion. Because now he's all alone.
He walked on, ignoring Molly's protestations about how he hadn't done anything and neither had I. On to the roof.
I hate myself for what I did. I hate myself for not thinking of the consequences. I hate myself for not believing, not for a moment, not for one second that what I did would have a detrimental effect on him. I genuinely, idiotically and blindly believed that whatever I felt about him, my feelings would never be returned. So I kept my emotions hidden amongst the vast attic that is my mind. Hidden for too long.
What happens next is simple. He dropped quietly from the roof of Saint Bart's Hospital, and was killed upon impact.
If he had waited a mere week, he would have never done such a thing. If I had waited one week less, it never would have happened.
Things could even, maybe, have been back to normal by now.
By normal, of course, I mean we would both act like we hate each other, even if one of us didn't entirely mean it.
Dammit, my mind, once so sharp, is a mess. I don't know what happened to me. But whatever it was, it was my fault.
As it is my fault that John decided to take his own life rather than face it without, I sometimes dare to hope, me.
Like John on that fateful day, I see no meaning to all of this anymore.
Meaning I see no point anymore to living, that is. Some days it's better; I get up and smile and wave and pretend everything's ok and nod and grin and act less aloof than I ever have done. Some days I even see a tiny glint of hope for the future. I see a light at the end of the darkness, as cliché as it might sound.
Some days it is worse than others, though. Some days I get up and think I want to jump, to leap from the roof of St Bart's all over again. But then I think of John.
I think of all the things I'd tell him. Of how I'd apologise over and over and ask him time after time for forgiveness, and to apologise again. I think of all the things I owe him. All the things he did for me. All he gave, all he sacrificed. The little I did in return. I think of how I used to infuriate him. How I pretended to be a heartless and cold blooded creature, an animal, no. A mere machine. I appeared to be a calculator, incapable of experiencing human emotions; love and hate and envy and broken heart, whereas in fact I was anything but.
It was selfish. It was cruel. It was heartless and, quite frankly, I don't think he'd have expected anything less from me.
But even still, even now, I wish so very much that it wasn't the case.
Why?
I guess that the simple truth is that I loved him. I loved him so very much. More than anything.
I still do. And I blame myself for everything.
Everything that happened a year and six months ago today. And everything that is to happen now.
Because it was, and still is, all my fault.
So. I ask of you this, Dr John Watson. Even though I'm not one to believe in miracles.
One more miracle. For me, John.
Please don't be dead.