Author's Note: Hello, all! ReinikSociety here. This is just a short fanfiction I wrote in anticipation of Sherlock Season 3. I also wrote it as the last fanfiction of the year for me. It has SPOILERS! So, if you haven't watched the second season (or the mini episode), turn back now. Or not. Your choice. It's in the POV of Watson. It's my first Sherlock/Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, so... Yeah. It might not be that good. Hope you enjoy! Reviews would be greatly appreciated! I'd love to hear what you guys have to say! (By the way, this isn't my first fanfiction, but it is the first I plan to keep on here. Hopefully.) Now read!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
I look at the clock beside my bed. Four in the morning, and I can't get to sleep.
The smell wafting off of myself has been here for at least two days. Maybe three.
I've lost count. I don't bother putting pants on over my boxers.
I don't put my shoes on, either.
I unlock my door and step outside, the night air heavy with the smell of the city, cool on my chest.
Although the streets are filled with cars, I feel isolated. I almost feel like I'm the only man on Earth.
After his death, it's almost like there really isn't anyone left on Earth.
The way the people around me stare, like I'm a kicked puppy, is starting to really annoy me.
Yes, he's dead. And, yes, I'm fine. "No, John, you're not fine. That much is obvious."
Shut up, Mycroft. My life, not yours, remember? My therapist has prescribed me pills to help me sleep.
I've not used them at all. Well, that's a lie. I use them in the mornings, right before I pretend to have breakfast; at night when I pretend to have dinner; when I pretend to go to bed; and especially when I pretend to think of him.
I took them a few minutes ago, actually, and now I feel something weird. Something... different.
Almost like when you watch a body hit the pavement. That kind of feeling.
You know, the type of feeling you get when someone's blood pools from underneath them. That.
But, sense I can't seem to kick this feeling, I might as well walk against the traffic.
Every car that wooshes by is like a new bullet entering me. A fresh, clean bullet, straight out of a war.
"I'm gonna be with you again very soon," he said. "Soon," I echo.
Then where the hell are you? I look to the right at the flowing traffic.
If you can do it, why can't I? I stop walking and turn to the busy traffic, feet burning from glass-made cuts and scrapes.
I step closer to the curb.
Why can't I?
THE END