AN: This is my first attempt at fanfiction so please tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome :). Please review it too.
Oh and i don't own any of these characters. Yeah so enjoy :)
Falling. Never ending falling. Always falling. No end, just down. Down, down, down. Never slowing. Never stopping. Just down. I'm falling, John!
John's eyes flew open. His breath ragged, his heart thumping. 3.46 am. Five hours sleep. That was the most he'd had in a long time. Not because he couldn't sleep, that wasn't the problem; it was his mind that was the problem. John Watson's mind never slept. Not anymore. Not after that day. That day. The memories flooded John's head. The roof top. The phone call. His last words. The fall. Goodbye John.
Why does it hurt so much?
John rolled up into a tight ball. The room was cold and empty. Not John's room, his room. The familiar name escaped John's thoughts. It was lost but never forgotten, always bringing back more memories. Running through London. Solving cases. Those lightning fast deductions. The mind of a genius, and he truly was a genius. Despite all the newspaper articles. Suicide of Fake Genius.
He couldn't be lying. He wouldn't do that. Would he?
John Watson's mind never slept anymore and this night was no exception. John closed his eyes, not expecting sleep but hoping for it. Sleep would be the only release for whatever he was feeling. John didn't know what he was feeling. There was pain. So much pain. But pain was expected and there was something more. John was angry. He was angry at the world. He was angry at the man that left him. He was angry at being alone.
I was so alone. I'm still alone.
5.23 am. It was a reasonable time to get up, but John couldn't get up. He couldn't move. He hadn't left this room since that day. That day. It had been two weeks. Mrs. Hudson brought John food and clean clothes although John didn't know why, he never ate anyway. She occasionally sat with him too, but he didn't want her sympathy. He just wanted to know why.
Why did you leave me?
John sat up. He was dizzy, the feelings overflowing in his brain. Hurt, anger, confusion, the never ending pain. I need to get out. I need to get away! John got to his feet, only to fall back down on the bed. He couldn't get up. The weight of the pain on his shoulders. It pushed John down. Falling, always falling. John was falling, like his friend. His best friend. Never ending falling, just down.
NO!
John swung his legs over the edge of the bed, taking it slower this time. He stood up steadily, making sure he had his balance. John looked around the dark space. It was still the way he had left it, except for the bed. A small stack of books laid in the corner of the room and a pile of clothes in another. The room was messy but that's the way he liked it. Sucking in a sharp breath John grabbed a blanket and shuffled into the bathroom. He looked into the mirror and saw a stranger looking back. Thin faced with greasy, blonde hair. The bags under his eyes showing lack of sleep and the skeletal appearance of his face showing lack of food. John looked at his cheekbones. So sharp and clear, like his. More memories flooded John's already cramped head. Those dark curls and pale skin. The defined features of his face. So mysterious, so beautiful and he was beautiful.
With a sigh, John left the bathroom, the blanket still wrapped around his lean shoulders. Each step he took was a struggle, his body was aching. When John made it to the kitchen, he froze. It was like nothing had changed, like none of it had happened. Beakers and vials sat upon the bench. A number of newspaper articles and unsolved case files sat in a messy pile. If there wasn't a thick layer of dust on these items John would have believed that he wasn't gone. John's head was capable of creating that lie.
But I saw you fall.
John slowly made his way into the living room. Like the rest of the small flat the living room was a mess. Nothing had been moved or touched. Books sat in random little piles, more newspaper articles hung around the room. The Cludo board still perched precariously on the wall, a knife holding it in place, the memory of that event coming back to him. It's not actually possible for the victim to have done it. John smiled for the first time in two weeks, but his smile faltered as he turned around. His violin still placed upon his leather armchair. John could hear the wonderful music that it created. The music only he could play well. The sound was in John's head, but it felt so real.
How can you be so selfish? You machine!
John sat in his armchair, tucked in the blanket. He was staring at nothing and everything at the same time. So many questions filled his mind, questions he didn't have answers for and may never have answers for. It's always hard to face the truth and John Watson knew that more than anyone. He wanted to yell at him. Wanted to tell him how he felt.
You're selfish and I almost hate you. You left me and I never knew how much I needed you until you were gone. I owe you so much, but you owe me too. Just one more miracle for me, please. Don't be dead. Can you do that for me?
He was gone, he was never coming back, and John Watson's mind almost believed it.
It wasn't until his first therapy session in over a year, that he actually accepted it.
"You need to get it out." The therapist looked at him with a sympathetic look.
John struggled with his head, knowing what he was about to say was the truth and nothing more.
"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is . . . dead.