I'm not sure where this came from, but I was listening to The A Team by Ed Sheeran and this happened. Basically, Sherlock loses John during a case, and he... well... it's a bit not good for him. I actually am really proud of how this turned out. John's POV. Excuse the nearly complete lack of flow this has. (It's a tad choppy)
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, sexual abuse, depression, suicide. Not very fun things. Pretty angsty.
I watch him carefully and notice he's made a steep decline since I've gone. His face is pale, more pale than usual, as are his normally pink lips. His skin his roughly the same shade as the snowflakes he's breathing in. Imagine, actual snow in London. He's standing in an alleyway, fag in hand, expression distant. He makes a face, as if it tastes sour. He promptly drops it to the pavement and crushes it with his foot.
The sun has long set before he walks into the flat. Bills are stacked on the table, struggling to pay the rent, no doubt. He doesn't work anymore. Dull, light grey eyes glance at the perfect envelopes before turning to walk back out the door. The night is long, and the men are strangers. I feel my heart strain.
They say things about him behind his back, but he's never been one to care at all what people say. I don't think he hears them anyway. The man is stuck in his own daydreams, pupils blown, the ghost of a smile hiding in his dead eyes. Of course, he's been that way for years, but never like this. His eyes were always bright and alive, always searching, always changing. It's never-ending, his delusions now. Lately he's been sinking, crumbling, breaking apart. He's been going to parties, surrounded by tightly-packed strangers in smoky rooms. Their motto seems to be "the worst things in life come free to us". They're just under the upper hand, this lot, and all of them would go mad for a couple grams. He doesn't want to go outside, but he does it. It's the things they give him. He's desperate. And they use him. He lies there quietly, despondent, lets them finish their horrid business, and when they do he dresses and repeats. It's too cold outside. He stays, begs for more.
It's night again. His gloves are ripped, the fabric and skin raking through his half-dry curls. His long coat billows about him as usual, dripping like the rest of him. It looks abused. Tattered. Loose change and bank notes swim in his pockets from where they were stuffed twenty-four hours ago. His whole appearance is weary, but it shows especially in his eyes. His throat is dreadfully dry, but he doesn't swallow or cough. The others are trying to call him - they're worried - but he has no phone. When arrives back at the flat, water droplets crash to the floor. He's just trying to stay afloat. I have the foreboding sense he won't be able to much longer.
His delusions are becoming more prominent. He speaks to me now, staring straight through me as he goes on into the endless hours of the night. He breaks a little further, dies a little more. He whispers my name when they violate him, then returns to the empty place he used to call home. His needle is his new best friend, as is his lighter. The nicotine patches lie abandoned, he doesn't need them anymore. He requires something so much stronger. With dilated pupils, he flies away, huddled in the corner. He shivers.
Weeks pass, and he gets worse. Giving up is so much easier, how could he have managed to last this long? He's going to die, my angel. Quietly, surrounded by white. The wind howls its consent. His eyes close slowly, hoping for something better. It won't come. He's fading, and fast. It won't be long until he joins me. We'll fade out together.
He stays inside tonight, staring straight ahead. An abandoned tourniquet lies beside him. The needle rolls out of his limp hand, scurrying away. Finally, he sees me, and that ghostly smile is ressurected. I clasp his hand and pull him up. We don't want to go outside. It's too cold, but we can't stay. Not here, not in this empty place. I squeeze his fingers gently, and we fly away.