Okay, so i wrote this after many feels from Reichenbach. So you mustn't hate me for my rather grim idea of how John is feeling. Although to be perfectly honest i have read some darker ones than this and to be fair it's not even that grim. So i'm sure you will all be dandy and i can whisk away into the night without being hurt? Yes? Okay then. Now we have that established, i hope you feel completely obliged to...read on ;) xx Enjoy.
He knew it was ridiculous. Stupid even. Absolutely childish in every respect of the word. But for some reason his brain didn't seem to care, or if it did it made no move to achnowledge it. He also knew that if Sherlock were here he would tell him to stop. That it was brought apon psychologically, and if he really tried he would over come it and recover from the incident.
Of course John knew this, and if Sherlock had been there he would of told him so, reminded him that he was in fact a doctor, so obviously he understood the basics behind it, but that it wasn't that easy. Just because you know something can be cured doesn't mean you can cure it yourself, and subsequently doesn't mean it will allways work, and John could list countless of occasions where this could be installed into his work.
But Sherlock wasn't here, Sherlock at present would never be, and while John knew that Sherlock would have found it silly, he also knew that the action would have determined the lost expression Sherlock often wore when faced with the fact that, like it or not, John really did care about him, and for that matter so did Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and rather begrudgingly Mycroft. Even if in Johns eyes, Mycroft was an utter git.
But that they did care. All of them. Like it or not.
Regarding Mycroft, it was most assuredly the latter.
However much John knew all this, the ability to stop did not come. And after many failed attempts he had realised it was ridiculous to argue with himself. All it did was bring on nightmares. Nightmares that consisted of Sherlock alone.
Lying in the darkness that sorrounded death. Forever in solitude from light and human contact. Forever trapped.
Forever Bored.
After padding lightly to the swith on his bedroom wall that be had been attempting to keep switched off. He turned it on. Away from the images. Because allthough John Watson knew that it was irrational and rather like a child to need to sleep with the lights on, he couldn't help but be reminded of Sherlock in his coffin, sorrounded by darkness and entirely alone.
Well there you go. Short wasn't it. I hate short stories myself... they annoy me to... well...too tomato based scenarios?! But i thought i would write one for you guys :) Horrible?Good?Snore?Tooshort? Tell me... I NEED TO KNOW! :hides head: that got out of hand... i'm sorry :) x