When you think about it, we as humans don't matter that much.
Our lives, the eighty, maybe ninety years we live, are just a fraction of what has been and what is to come. Life is just an illusion, in my opinion. If you're going to do something worthwhile, you'd better do it quick because-
"John!" John Hamish Watson blinks at the computer screen in front of him. He reads over the words he's just written before he hits the backspace and makes them all disappear. Far too depressing, he thinks, I need to work on that. But he knows, as well as anyone, that nothing has been the same for him lately.
The nightmares of the war have been catching up to him, the thrill of the cases deluding him. It's as if, all of a sudden, he's right back where he was pre-Sherlock: a basket case of depression and PTSD. And ever since Sherlock's... he's been driving himself mad, trying to keep away from that dark place again. He thinks that by avoiding it he might actually be making it worse.
"John!" the voice of Mrs. Hudson calls again. John finally finds it in himself to turn from his computer. It's been a year and a half since Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson still drops in on him at least twice a day.
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" she sighs as she notices the bags under his eyes, the way he seems like he hasn't eaten in a few days.
"You haven't been sleeping." John drags a hand down his face, hoping that when he's done he will miraculously seem more awake. By the concern still evident in the older woman's face, he clearly does not.
"As I've said, Mrs. Hudson, I am fine. There's no need to keep on me like a watch dog." he tries to pull the venom out of his voice, but he sees that it still stings her just as badly, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. You wanted something?" As he always does, he desperately seeks for a change in subject.
"Yes, dear. I'm running down to the shop. Do you need anything?" she asks. Something to make me forget would be nice.
"No, nothing." he says, "I'm alright." he hears her sigh again, but this time he bites his tongue.
"Alright." she says, "How's your blog?" John's mind plays flashes of him groaning in frustration when words for his blog fail him.
"Good. It's good." he doesn't tell her that he hasn't written a single thing since Sherlock.
"Alright." she says one more time before leaving.
John turns back to his computer, watching the cursor blink on the blank page. For a moment he swears that he hears Sherlock. He swears he hears the sound of fabric against fabric as he slides on his scarf, the pop of a collar, the sounds that only Sherlock could make.
And then he sees them, standing there. Himself and Sherlock. A memory playing before his very eyes.
You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor.
Yes.
Any good?
Very good.
Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.
Well. Yes.
Bit of trouble too I bet.
Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.
Wanna see some more?
Oh god yes.
He remembers this day because it is the day his life changed. The day that Sherlock Holmes stepped in and took him through the best time of his life. Though, with the emptiness he feels at Sherlock's absence, he can't help but question if it was indeed for the better.
But, oh, the thrill of the chase!
The days where the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning was the knowledge that there was a new murder out there for them to solve!
The times that, if even a split second had been different, it could have meant the difference between life and death.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson against the-
No. He would not travel down this road again. This road that, without Sherlock, was broken and treacherous.
John closes his laptop, turning away from it. He feels Sherlock's presence swirl around him as he walks to the bathroom. He moves to the right to give the consulting detective more room to pin things to the wall. He ducks to avoid Sherlock's boredom flying towards the wall. A million shades of Sherlock, not one of them real enough.
When he reaches the bathroom, they are still sitting there. A handful of white pills. The ones he's almost ended his life with two times before this.
The first time, he was able to stop himself.
The second, Mrs. Hudson had to knock the pills from his hand.
But this time, nothing would stop him.
"What are you doing?" John jumps at the voice. And Sherlock is there. He's looking at John with those narrowed eyes that can only mean he's in the middle of a deduction.
"You're the genius here." John says, running the tap and filling a cup.
"John this isn't the solution." Sherlock says, "I know you feel alone, but-"
"Really? What do you know about being alone, Sherlock?" John snaps, "That's how I know this isn't real. You've never once taken my feelings into account. You pulled me out of my life and dragged me into life-or-death situations. You've almost killed me so many times, it's ridiculous."
"Killed you, John, really?" Sherlock smirks, standing behind him. John sees his reflection, but when he turns around, the bathroom is empty, "I think we both know that what I really did was save your life." John laughs.
"Saved it? Is that what you think you did?-"
"I made you feel alive again. I showed you a world that, until me, you had no idea you were addicted to."
"You're right. I did have an addiction." John says, "But like with any true addict, this life will be the death of me." he looks down at the pills again. "Whether it's by my hand or not."
"John you can't mean that. I know you don't." Sherlock puts a hand on John's shoulder, and John swears that he feels it.
"For the first time, Sherlock, you don't know everything." John looks himself in the eye and watches as Sherlock slowly fades away. "We've reached the end of the road, Sherlock, and I don't know where to go from here. But I can think of a good place to start."
It's a trick. Just a magic trick.
"I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?"
"What do you think of this shirt?" Sherlock asks, holding up a white button-down.
"Sherlock!" Sherlock sighs, turning to his brother.
"I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. Just put me back in London." Sherlock decides to put the shirt on. "I need to get to know the place again. Breathe it in. Feel every quiver of its beating heart."
"One of our men died getting this information." the agent with Mycroft speaks. "All the traffic, all the chatter concurs. There's going to be a terror strike on London. A big one." Sherlock ignores her. She is irrelevant.
"And what about John Watson?" Mycroft looks at Sherlock.
"John?" Sherlock rolls his eyes, used to his brother's ignorance.
"Have you seen him?" Mycroft searches his brother's face, looking for a break in the façade. He doesn't find one.
"Sherlock, I thought you knew." he says. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice the sadness in his voice.
"Knew?" he asks, "Knew what?"
"Sherlock... John Watson committed suicide six months ago." Sherlock doesn't seem fazed for a moment.
"Is that a joke, Mycroft." Sherlock asks, "You know I was never fond of jokes."
"It's no joke, Sherlock. I thought I got the message to you." Finally the knowledge breaks through him like a bullet.
In a moment, he is on his knees, no breath in his lungs. The air is so thick that he can't seem to take any in. He hears the muted sound of his brother saying his name, but he waves Mycroft off with his hand.
Sherlock vaguely remembers John promising that he would follow him anywhere. Sherlock never took into consideration that John might follow him into death, especially when he wouldn't be there to meet him.
He still isn't breathing.
It doesn't matter. Breathing is the last thing on his mind.
Suddenly it's like John is everywhere.
Laughing at how worried Mycroft is.
Making a comment about the attractive agent.
Telling Sherlock to get off his ass because he has work to do, terrorists to stop.
"Sherlock!" a voice breaks through, but it isn't Mycroft's.
The walls of his mind palace are crumbling. All around him, Sherlock sees John ending his own life. One John hangs from a ceiling fan. Another is passed out on the floor. Another in a pool of his own blood.
But there's one. There's one John that's running. Running so fast, Sherlock can only assume that he wants to be chased. He follows this John through hall after hall, but he's never close enough to catch him. And when he finally does, John slips through his fingers like smoke.
"I'm so sorry John. I'm sorry I couldn't save you." Sherlock whispers to all the shades as they play their death scenes over and over, "I'm sorry I couldn't save you from me."
God bless the broken road... that led me straight to you.