I'm losing my mind, losing control...
It started maybe a month later.
(Thirty-two days exactly, the calendar seems to taunt him.)
But then, he hadn't been aware of anything much really before then. He'd seemed to exist in a constant daze. Like life was nothing more than a dream, and everything and everyone faded into the background as soon as he passed them, to be forgotten and dismissed once he woke up.
Only he didn't wake so much as dredge up some sense of awareness from deep inside – if only to put off the ceaseless worried, anxious looks.
("Wasting away… isn't healthy… you sure you're alright?" No, no, no, but what can they do to help?)
The first time it happened, he put it off to too much caffeine and nowhere near enough sleep. It was only logical, after all, with all he'd been through. He seemed to be perpetually tired. His mind was bound to play tricks on him.
But no matter how much he tried to justify it afterwards, it didn't stop the sharp ache that shot through his chest. Even if it was to be expected. London was a large city, after all, filled with people all the time.
So he happened to glimpse a flash of oh-so-familiar black coat and scarf but he spun immediately and there was nothing there. No-one there. Well, there were people, of course there were, but not… Well. No coat, no scarf, no tall dark-haired figure shrouded in mystery and adventure and it was nothing, nothing, nothing. But, what did he expect, really?
And so he went on. Tried to push the incident away but it always seemed to budge itself to the forefront of his mind, slyly nudging aside everything else and sitting there almost innocuously, only not.
But whether or not it was a figment of his overtired and grieving mind continued to puzzle him for another couple months. His therapist would have had a field day had she heard, he had no doubt of that, but he told no one. Went about his days as usual. Spent sleepless nights tossing and turning in bed, arose with the sun, drank tea, read the paper, made his way to work... He figured if he couldn't help himself the least he could do with his life was help others.
(Though he couldn't help or save the one person who mattered and what's the point anyway?)
And then it was Day Eighty-Five and he was stumbling onto the tube and trying to stay on his feet and not crumble to the floor in a heap like he so wanted to. Tonight would be one of those nights where he shut down for a solid few hours after consecutive nights of haunted whispers and shadows, a replay of a dark figure falling, falling and he would wake with a dry mouth, a wordless anguished cry dying on his lips, hand outstretched in a futile attempt to- what, stop him? Catch him? Save him? He didn't know, never knew, maybe never will.
And so it was that he stood, clutching the pole in front of him, letting the cool metal soothe his skin and swaying along with the movement of the tide of people milling around. His gaze strayed ahead blankly, shutting out everything in his peripheral to stare out the window. And it was what his eyes landed on just as the train started moving that made him glad the pole was there to support him or his legs would surely have collapsed under him.
There, right there, in a swarm of people that faded and blurred into smudges of colour- smudges overshadowed by those unmistakable eyes, piercing eyes watching him, brightpaleblue endless and sharp, seeing everything, seeing him, the real him underneath the broken soldier, the real him that everyone else overlooked-
"Hey, mate, you alright?"
A hesitant voice, a concerned strange face before his, and he snapped back to reality with a sharp intake of breath. Blinked once, twice, looked around with furrowed eyebrows and haunted sunken eyes. Shrugged at the stranger's concern, managed a mumbled "yeah, sure" and got off at the next stop regardless of the fact that it wasn't his one yet. Walked home in the cold, revelled in the numbness that filled his skin, and tried not to stare around at every person who passed, every shadow that moved, every black and blue and tall that shot out of the crowds and alleys.
Walked in the cold and tried to ignore the prickling at the back of his neck, the soldier's instinct that never died, that he always trusted, except when it was trying to tell him the impossible.
Tried to take no notice of the all-too-familiar piercing feel of being watched, observed and studied, his every movement and reaction dissected and deduced for all their worth-
"Stop it," he said aloud to no-one.
The prickling in his neck disappeared. He didn't know whether he was glad or disappointed.
(Holding onto a memory and a lifeline, at once tugging him to safety and letting him drift in a weariful haze.)
After the third and fourth incidents (after five, six, seven months, though time is barely relative anymore) he merely accepted the fact with a weary resignation. He was spiralling, that was undeniable. At nights, stray faint violin cords were strung in the empty moonlit rooms; during the day, all was silent and heavy, remnants of a haunting melody echoing after each slam of a door, rustle of paper, rattle of the tea kettle. It was suffocating, surely, yet he hesitated to move. It didn't seem right.
Not when he could practically see the sullen blue gaze fixed on him if the thought even crossed his mind.
Not when he had seen that memorable stare, knew he had, damn all logic that said otherwise. In crowds, around street corners, illuminated in the bare light of a street lamp in shadowed alleyways – watching, always watching him, yet the glimpses never lasted more than a moment. A heartbeat, even.
(A soundless heartbeat, one of a heart no longer beating, a figure like a ghost never lingering.)
It made him angry. Perhaps he should have been confused, worried, doubtful even. But he wasn't. All he felt was a bitterness that spread from his core, deep and hot and red. "Why?!" he wanted to yell. "Just show yourself!" But it was futile, would have been a wasted effort. The one time he took on pursuit of the tall dark spirit that haunted his peripheral, he ended up grasping at thin air, gaining naught from the chase but the empty feeling that he was clutching at mere wisps of memory projected into a semi-solid form.
Like his mind was giving him the reassurance that he was not yet alone.
(Watching over him, like some dark guardian angel, in all those daysweeksmonths that passed.)
He had asked for a miracle, he remembered. One last miracle... And he wasn't sure if this was the universe's way of telling him that his wish was insensible, couldn't possibly be granted, but he felt it was a poor attempt. Not what he asked for, yet not a complete dismissal either.
He was stuck half-way, it seemed.
Much like where he started. Where it all began.
-x-x-x-
And so I run down to the things they say could restore me
Restore life the way it should be
I'm waiting for this cough syrup to come down
One more spoon of cough syrup now, oh
-x-x-x-
A/N: So... I'm not entirely sure what this is? I just- the reviews I got for my first venture into the world of Sherlock fanfic inspired me (seriously guys, whoever read and reviewed that one, thank you so much :3) and this idea kinda brewed up and I thought I'd try it out. See what comes of it. And... yeah, this is what I ended up with. Hope I did broken!haunted!John justice x)
I'm not sure about the style. It's... sort of unorganised but I felt like it worked for the content? Would love to hear your thoughts, anyhow. :)
Also, dedicating this to my fellow amazing Sherlockian who got me into this addicting show in the first place. Renae – thanks for that, love. :P Lol, also bro, writing for Sherlock seems to be taking my psychoanalysing tendencies to new levels. xD Hey, it works.
And also. John. *cuddles him* poor bby i'm sorry.
Okay, this is where I stop. Gunna be studying my arse off the rest of the long weekend so I'll hold off any incoming fics in the meantime xP Thanks for reading! :)
~izzy.