A/N: Hi there all! IAG&S Here! Well, this is the first time I've ever done an Author's Note! This is actually kind of fun!
well, anyway this is just an idea I've really been meaning to put down on paper -er- screen. I hope you will enjoy it! Mind you, it's incredibly angsty. So, please bear with me! This will indeed be a multi chapter fic! I'll work as hard as I can to update often! :D
Whispers
***Chapter 1***
I can't get away.
The rain beat against the window. The drops sounded as big as pebbles, probably were. This was London after all. John sighed and surveyed the room he was currently residing in. Everything was as it was the day Sher -HE- died. The skull sat upon the mantle, as always, the bookshelves and paper-piled desk were left untouched and to gather dust. The whole flat was covered in dust, in fact, most people believed John Watson had crawled up the stairs and just died.
Two years had passed since he had commit suicide. John had been overwhelmed, like he was being pressed under the power of the Thames at every given moment with grief. He had thought of it before, the easy way out, as they call it. The first days had been rough. The first year he had been able to hide it. But by the second, he could no longer keep a straight face when his name was mentioned. John was one of those people where the death of a loved one took an awful long time to take full effect. He tried to muster up the courage to throw things out, to visit the place where he had died. Yet, everything he touched reminded him of a smile, a glance, a chuckle, a kiss, a pat on the shoulder, that twinkle in his eye. John found himself avoiding the whole street that had housed the atrocity. Even if the bank, or some other important thing was that way. He just couldn't.
John sighed again and twiddled his thumbs lightly. This placed practically reeked of him, yet, he couldn't pull himself away. If he left, John would never forgive himself. If he stayed, John knew he would eat himself alive; at least, he could be among the remnants of his lover as he did so. He picked up his mug and took a quivering sip of tea, only to find it was cold. Had he really been thinking on his sorrows that long? Maybe he needed help, maybe he needed to talk to Mycroft? Only he could get himself help, but in his stubbornness, he didn't.
He set down the mug and stood. The man slowly walked to the lou, only to observe a person he'd never seen before staring back at him. It had been a long time since he looked into the mirror. Now, he was met but a pale skinned, skeleton of a man. He was 34. 34, and already had graying hair. He moved a thin hand up to push the brown and silver locks from his eyes. Lord, he looked like a homeless man.
'Indeed, I am Holmes-less.' John thought, blinking back a tear or two. He observed his hands, they looked nothing more than bone. His wrists looked like they would snap under any kind of pressure. His fingernails were getting long too. They looked more like talons or claws that anything else. John shifted on his feet and turned on the sink water. He splashed some of the icy chill onto his face. 'Wake up, John. He's visiting today whether you like it or not.'
Even though he hadn't asked him to come, Mycroft came every two weeks or so to check on him and make sure he was still alive. After all, any sensible person could see that they wouldn't get through to a stubborn mule like John.
When Mycroft arrived, John was sitting upon his chair. His hair was short again, and combed as it usually was, though the gray was hard to miss. He was wearing a tan jumper and brown trousers. He looked as though he hadn't slept in months. Which was probably true.
"Hello there, John. How goes it? I see you've been using the money I've sent on the flat and not your betterment." Mycroft observed, pulling off his coat. John visibly stiffened, but gave none other than an 'I'm fine.'. Mycroft decided to meander over to the kitchen. "Cuppa?" He asked from the stove.
"No, thank you." John said stiffly. He normally would've been the one offering a drink, but these meetings with Mycroft were so unbearable that he just didn't have the willpower.
"Have anything stronger?" He asked, reappearing from the open doors. John shook his head and Mycroft sighed. "Well, then I best be going. And John," he said pulling on his rain soaked coat, "I've recently found a good therapist if you're willing." John could only swallow and look down at his clenched fists. The older Holmes took this as a 'no' and exited the premises, leaving John, once again, alone. Alone in his little flat with all his memories.
When John finally started showing signs of life again, the rain had stopped. The sun filtered in through the grimy windows. The world around him was quiet and calm. He could hear Mrs. Hudson downstairs, banging away at something or another. John took and deep breath and stood. He pulled on his socks, and his battered trainers. The man moved over to the coat rack, where his extra trench coat hang. John grabbed the thing and pulled on swiftly. He buttoned it up and put up the collar. He grinned slightly at how silly he must look. An overcoat much to big for him with the collar up and old dilapidated trainers. A few tears escaped him, however as he caught the scent of the owner. A dreamy expression masked his face as he inhaled deeply, his nose pressed to the fabric. What a wonderful smell. He hobbled back over to his own room in the small flat and opened his bedside table drawer. A black gun sat at the very bottom of the drawer, shielded slightly from view by papers and pictures. He lifted the weapon from its hiding place and stared at it for a few moments before pocketing it.
John left the drawer open as he quickly exited the flat, leaving the door ajar. He wouldn't leave a note, there was nothing he wanted to say. He just wanted to get away. He limped down the stairs as quickly as he could. Watson stood at the front door of 221b, looking up the big, black, tacky golden numbered door he'd called home for so long. He brought his hand up to his mouth, kissed his fingers and then pressed them against the door.
"Good bye, love, I'll be joining you soon though." he whispered, before turning and hailing a cab.
John arrived at the specified address. He paid the cabbie and stepped out. The big gray building loomed above him. He felt as though he would fall over from the sheer sorrow that damned building was emitting. There was a planter box a bit of the ways from the door. It was high and broad enough to be a bench, so John sat down on it and stared at the spot of Sher - Sherlock's death.
He must've been sitting there for a while. For when he blinked it was suddenly night time. There were people rushing by and often accidentally nudging him in their attempt to hurry past. He had been contemplating, those hours he had been sitting there. Whether or not to kill himself or to just sit there until someone forced him to leave. He had decided on the before portion. Why not?
John slowly pulled the gun from the deep pocket of the trench coat and pressed beneath his chin in a rather discreet fashion. No one would notice until he pulled the trigger. He took a deep breath, but this time it didn't stop the tears from flowing. He let them run, let the hot sorrow of 2 years pour. He clicked off the safety and began to slowly pull the trigger.
To be continued...