Life must be pretty tough for John without Sherlock.
Falling
Ever since that day, John Watson can't stop thinking about falling.
Each morning, when he gets up, he moves to the window. He can't help it-it's a reflex now, a reflex like rolling his eyes at Sherlock used to be, the same way typing up a case used to be his first thought.
He stands by the window and he forces himself to look down.
He stares at the ground-why did he have to find a flat on the third floor, should have looked for lower-and makes himself imagine what it would be like to fall. What it would be like to tumble through the air, wind rushing past you, barely enough time to cry out. What it would be like to crash into the ground, bones shattering, blood sticking to the paving stones-
That's usually when his stomach lurches and he ends up on his knees in the bathroom, tiles cold against his skin, mouth sour with memories.
The rest of the time, he doesn't go near the window. But in the mornings, when he wakes up, that's where he goes first. It's like a magnet, drawing him near.
And at night, that's where he is in his dreams.
Every night, he slides off a roof, out of a window, over a cliff. Every night, he drops through the air like a stone, his body slamming into objects, blood flying with him as sharp rocks graze his skin, and the ground coming closer-concrete, always concrete, ready to smash into his body, shatter his bones, puncture his organs, snap his neck in one, decisive crack.
And he always wakes up just before that part. Bolts upright, grasping the blankets, gasping as if he's been running, heart slamming against his chest as if it's trying to get out, and remembers it was all a dream. It was all just a dream.
But of course, the worst ones aren't.
John wakes up once, twice, three times a night. But he'll take those dreams. He'll take those dreams and the waking up and the sheer empty, bottomless terror, because they're better than the dreams where he's watching.
Sherlock standing on the edge of the roof. Sherlock leaning forward. Sherlock plummeting through the air like a rock. Sherlock slamming into the pavement. Sherlock's blood, staining his shoes.
And John, watching.
They're the ones that make him shriek. They're the ones that make him curl up, arms around his knees, as if he can vanish if he makes himself as small as possible, hide away from the truth. They're the ones that make him gasp for breath and bury his face in the sheets to hide the tears that have run out while he sleeps. They're the ones that make him think about the gun nestled away in his desk and imagine the barrel stroking his temple, a bullet inches from his own skull.
And John would take the dreams of falling, take a hundred dreams of falling, as long as he never had to have another dream where he watched. Because, falling, that's a dream, just a dream, just another dream to leave behind.
Watching...that's the truth, the memory.
And that's the one that won't go away.
John Watson doesn't like to think about falling. He tries to push it out of his mind.
But the nights, the mornings, the nightmares...they all make him remember.
The new season...the new season...they need to reunite...they need to reunite...is a pretty good idea of what's going on in my brain right now.