I own nothing. Doyle, Gatiss and Moffat are AMAZING!
WARNING: Angst/ Spoiler for 2X03(THE FALL) Suicidal ideology
Inspired by Florence + the Machine's Ceremonials album
Read/Enjoy/ Review (if you'd like) Please and Thank you.
There are no birds singing today.
His scarf billows around him, cold concrete unforgiving as he slowly makes his way forward.
The silence did him in— scratching behind his eyelids as his skin crawled.
The stillness killed him— time frozen as the world moved on without him…without them.
The world forgot.
John didn't.
John thought he could make it out of his flat today. The walls; stark-bare, clutter his breathing space until there's no room for him to exist.
So he ventured out, bitter winds scrubbing across his face— the white-hot pain of feeling.
He hasn't felt anything in a very long while.
John leans heavily on his cane. People wash past him like he's a boulder set in the middle of a stream.
They eye him.
He's the leper.
Diseased.
Alone.
The silence buzzes along his spine; each three legged step he takes, silence bubbles under his skin.
Sherlock's silence.
Guilt branded under his tongue.
The world has forgotten them.
The good that they did.
Just Sherlock's name whispered; vague wisps of smoke called to mind just to fade just as quickly as they came.
John forgot.
For the briefest of moments between his heart shuttering him awake and him coming into his mind. John forgot Sherlock's decent; the soundless connection from sky to the cold concrete.
Guilt weighs heavy on the threads holding John together.
Watered down sun tries to reach him; John hobbles down the street, deep furrow in his brow from the pain.
The pain of loss.
Of forgetting…
And when he passes a shop, he hears it.
The slight strain at first— he turns at the dips and bows of the melody.
The wind picks up, scrubbing at his face, and yet he remains stock-still; his knees locked.
He feels is heartbeat in his lips as his tongue passes over them; skin cracked and sore, tender flesh exposed…healing, scarring. It doesn't matter anymore.
People push past him, taking no note.
John's fingernails dig red crescents in his palms as the music swells—
He can feel something split inside him. Something bubbles to his throat, choking the life out of him.
He misses Sherlock.
There were so many things he should have told Sherlock…should have done…but John was always three steps behind.
No way to catch up now.
Sherlock left him behind.
His chest seizes and he can't seem to catch his breath…and somehow the cold concrete is pressing against his back and he's staring up past this woman's face and into the cloudless grey sky.
It's the stormy grey of Sherlock's eyes.
Somehow, John's on his back and someone's holding his head. Pain radiates from the base of his skull, coming to a boil behind his eyeballs.
His mouth opened in a silent scream.
John has the urge to smash his head against the concrete, over and over until he stops feeling. Until everything stops, just fucking stops for a moment.
He wants Sherlock back. Back where he belongs. Wants everything to right itself. For Sherlock not to have fell…he didn't jump for Christ's sake. He fell. He just fell.
John wants to nag Sherlock to eat and Sherlock in turn dragging him on cases and driving him up the wall…John wants Sherlock in one piece…John wants Sherlock to not be…dead.
Instead, he mumbles his apologizes, brushing off strangers offers of help and insistence for medical treatment. Instead, he reaches for his forgotten cane, hoists himself slowly from the ground and brushes himself off.
He hears the whispers…the anxious buzz of bees.
It's that loony fellow's flatmate.
What's his name…the funny named fellow…
Sherlock and…
What a shame…
He's a crockpot too then?
John's gone completely numb. Tries to breathe.
He struggles to get away from the crowd that has surged around him.
He knew he shouldn't have come out today, he just thought that it might be a good idea, it being year since Sherlock…fell.
But he's broken beyond repair.
Sherlock's gone.
There's nothing left to hang on to.
A/N: Part two should be coming along shortly, if you guys think this is worth continuing. Constructive criticism is lovely Thank you for taking the time to read…hope you enjoyed.