Once Again Alone
Alone. The word defined the consulting detective's life. Though there were some who cared for him or rather worried about him, he preferred living his life alone. Alone protected him. That's how it was meant to be.
"But now, why?" He asked himself. "Why?" As his back slumped against the wall, and he slid down to the floor. "Why do I care so much about being alone?" He felt this sudden emptiness that was so strange and foreign to him. It felt as if there was an aching in his heart and with every beat, it throbbed painfully. Of course, it was more in a figurative sense rather than a literal. But, why? Sherlock never cared before, he never cared. Why now? This question repeated like an endless echo in his mind over and over again. He could probably figure out the answer but he was afraid the only answer he came up with, was true.
"Sherlock Holmes. Afraid of emotions and attachments," he muttered to himself with a light scoff. "Pathetic." Though, wasn't it true? He was afraid of forming attachments with people and developing some sort of positive, rather than negative emotions towards them. This is how it ended up anyhow. Relationships broke you down. They broke you down into an emotional wreck, reduced you to a pitiful being. Sherlock hated pity.
Picking himself up and brushing himself off, Sherlock trudged over to his room, made his way to the bed, and collapsed into it. Maybe tonight he'd get some sort of sleep. He hadn't had much good, peaceful sleep in three years. Three years since his supposed death. There wasn't a day that went by when he didn't think of that day on the roof of St. Barts.
The diligent detective was used to going on for days, even weeks on end without any sleep at all. He thought his usual lifestyle would help him with the days ahead since his disappearance. Moriarty's henchman was out to get him, and until now, Sherlock couldn't detect a single trace of the sniper. Staying in hiding was quite the nerve-racking experience. Combined with the emotions he was experiencing, emotions he did not know how to deal with, he honestly was at his wit's end. The thoughts that flooded his mind caused him to fist the sheets into his hands, clutching tightly, "Bloody hell..."
Despite all of it, all the feelings and anguish, Sherlock Holmes never once shed a tear. He had enough of crying that one day. He wouldn't let another tear streak his cheek. That was the last time he'd show his tears. Only that once for his best friend. John.
...
Please be alive.
Three whole years. The longest three years of his life and the days still seemed to drag on. Mrs. Hudson was quite worried and hadn't stopped phoning him weekly since they parted at the cemetery. John had rented his own flat and had Lestrade get his things from the old flat he shared with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. He refused to go back, he refused to even set foot on Baker Street. John stayed as far away from that part of London as possible. Sometimes he would pass through, because the cab he was taking would use a route going through the nostalgic street. But he wouldn't spare a glance at the door marked 221B.
Today was one of those days. His eyes immediately began to water as he saw the street the taxi turned in to. He would protest but it was too late. Keeping his head down, eyes averted from the buildings, he felt the familiar cobblestone road beneath the car as they rolled over it. "If Sherlock could see me now...heh." The former army doctor muttered under his breath. "You're too emotional, John. What in the world's wrong with you? That's what you're saying up there, right, Sherlock?" He shook his head and took a deep, shaky breath.
It'd been three years already. There was no need to be so emotional, really. John had stopped attending his therapy sessions. Nothing could help him get over this. His best friend had died. Died. Committed suicide. He was there to watch and see his friend jump off the hospital roof. His jaw clenched as the flashbacks appeared in his mind. Leaning over in his seat, he rested his head on the back of the front passenger seat. It was useless to mull over, cry over, think over the things that had happened. He knew if he was the one that died, Sherlock wouldn't be dwelling on it everyday. He really wasn't the type to. He never really cared much.
John groaned quietly at his thoughts. "No, I shouldn't be so negative... Well, Sherlock was such a cold bastard.." He chuckled softly with a sad but smiling expression. "Oh Sherlock.. are you really dead?" John silently wished that his friend wasn't gone, that he was playing some sick joke. "Hah, Sherlock? Play a joke? Never."
John never let go though of that one wish, the one miracle he requested at the gravesite. "Please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me?" His breath lodged in his throat as the words rang in his mind. "Please..."