He stopped being Dr John Watson, after the funeral. He couldn't return home - 221B wasn't his home without that man, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. London stifled him. He stayed with Harry in the country. Harry stifled him. People came and went, he got a job, he went to the shops, he drank. Lestrade called now and then, with little to say. He was alone, and he liked his isolation. He would never cry.
With a signature and date, he filled in the last piece of paperwork for the day. The papers seemed to stretch like mountains around him. Towering over him. Towers. Rooftops. A coat caught in the sudden wind. Dark shapes fell from the stacks of paper he was enclosed in, flying in all directions. He couldn't catch them all, he couldn't, he wasn't enough for these mini geniuses...
A sudden jolt from his lungs made movement impossible but he was shaking and he couldn't look at these towers anymore and his eyes flashed gold in the fading sun and there was shredded bricks and sweat and blood on the floor and he had torn down the towers with his hands; but the blood remained, indelible.
A soft, but certain tap was the first sound he'd heard over his screaming thoughts. A clipboard came in, closely followed by a pinstriped, heeled slice of woman. Her make-up said I'm approachable, talk to me about your problems. Her face did not.
"Watson. Explain." Who was she talking to? It couldn't be him - he had no name. Rats don't have names. He realised he was on his knees. His tongue propelled forward in his mouth of its own volition, and he thought his insides would be showered all over The Clipboard's shoes - for a fraction of a second. He swallowed his pain and it fell back to the depths of his stomach. He got to his feet and straightened his clothes.
"Mrs Goldwire, I-" He sniffed and lifted his eyes. He hated looking up.
"I'm sorry Dr Watson, I really am," she said, with no hint of remorse. "But we cannot keep having these... incidents. Not in the surgery. We need you to be at your mental peak - understand? No slacking! We can't be seen to employ... well, we need to have reliable staff here. You don't seem quite-" she broke off, straightening her skirt and glancing around the office "fit the bill." She was avoiding his eyes, examining the venetian blinds behind his head. This was fine as he was avoiding her eyes too.
"I'll pack my things." The monotone phrase had been used before. About a year ago. 11 months, 2 weeks and 6 days. 57 texts. He hated numbers.
Rattling skulls made him nauseous on the tube home. Other people spoiled his thoughts. He understood now why Sherlock always isolated himself as he thought. The winding tunnels soothed his brain as the train swept through station after station towards an empty house that was his now. He closed his eyes and listened to the blood circulating his brain. He sunk into the rare moment of calm, wrapping the quiet around his mind like a blanket. A shock blanket - bright orange. Drifting to another time, he allowed himself a blissful journey through his most sacred memories.
He's smiling. He's actually smiling! I just shot a serial killer! But his genuine amusement is infectious... I can't control my laughter as he twirls through the crime scene in that bright orange sheet - ridiculous man. He's radiant! His smile is making it all okay. Maybe I'm in shock too.
Lestrade wants a word. I hope he doesn't take him to the station. Sherlock seems to be the only thing stopping me going mad over the fact that I just killed a man. Lestrade stumbles off and we leave the area. I have to get away from here, this scene. Far away. But I have to stay with him... I can't explain it, yet. But he's magnetic, electric, and so much more.
I see him before Sherlock does: his "arch-enemy". My heart rate increases tenfold as I point him out to Sherlock, concealing my panic in whispered tones. Panic? I've been in warzones, but now I get flustered over a middle aged man with an umbrella. Sherlock stares at him in... frustration? His brow furrows and I try to read him. I must look odd standing beside him, staring at his features. That situation at Angelo's... Will everyone think I'm his date? Does everyone? Standing here, his tall figure emphasised in that long coat, my limp cured, at god knows what o'clock, do I actually mind?
Blood was racing through his mind now. The sound had become overwhelming. Synapses and neurons expanded inside his head until he thought his skull would burst, exploding behind his eyes and shooting darts from all sides. A fierce fight was taking place in his brain and his consciousness was a civilian casualty.
He got off the train at the next stop and walked the remaining distance to his flat. He can't bear taxis anymore.