John lay on the bathroom floor in nothing but a dirty pair of trousers, watching blood trickle from the cuts on his arms, a used razorblade on the tile.
He couldn't breathe for crying, flashes of a mangled body and dark curls soaked in crimson flashing through his mind.
"Sher-Sherlock…" He sobbed helplessly, wishing for the ache in his heart to lessen.
He shakily picked up the razor and made another few deep cuts on the inside of his forearm.
Finally, after a few minutes, his breathing slowed and the tightness in his chest eased.
He pulled himself up, using the cabinet for support and cleaned up his arms.
After drying off, he left the bathroom and blindly trailed the stairs up to his bedroom.
"Hey Sherlock," he said to the dark haired man leaning against the wall.
John knew he was hallucinating. He had been ever since Sherlock's suicide. He would see Sherlock sitting in his old chair or on the stool in the kitchen, but when he did a double take, it was only his mind playing tricks.
John got used to it for the most part, but there were times when he couldn't tell real life from what his mind was making up so to bring him back to the present, to what was real, he would cut open his arms or legs, mostly to make sure he was still real. Still feeling.
It helped, he would stop seeing things for a while, but everything would stop making sense again and he would see Sherlock walking around the flat once more.
Lately though, it had gotten worse. Much worse. Self-harming wasn't working as well as it used to, he still saw Sherlock and the world still seemed fake and cloudy somehow.
So he hurt himself more often, and worse, deeper. Anything to stop seeing Sherlock. But it was getting to a point where John was scared he was going crazy. Real life didn't make any sense and he tittered between what was real and what wasn't.
He couldn't even go outside anymore. Every time he stepped out, he saw Sherlock jumping off the roofs of buildings and John would run to his aid only to find nothing there.
John laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling, ignoring Sherlock sitting in the chair in the corner of the room.
He fell asleep a few times, each time waking up in a panic over Sherlock's dead body.
Mrs. Hudson came in to check on him, bringing up a tray of tea and biscuits which he didn't touch.
She and Lestrade were the only ones who knew what John was seeing, mostly because he had ran in front of a car to go to the aid of a man who wasn't there.
Lestrade had mentioned taking John to a psychiatric hospital for help, but John always refused, saying that he was fine, that he was getting better. He knew Lestrade didn't believe him though, and he kept a close eye on John.
John spent the rest of the night between dozing off and talking to Sherlock about Afghanistan.
Over the next few weeks, John got worse, and he knew it.
Now Sherlock was following him around, not leaving him alone. He would be in the shower and peek from behind the curtain, only to see Sherlock seemingly looking in the fogged mirror.
He would be making breakfast and Sherlock would be there, leaning against the refrigerator, making wild hand motions as if he were talking about something important.
John would be watching evening telly and Sherlock would stand in front of the television, hands on his hips, as if he were saying 'why are you watching that?'
Nighttime started worrying John. John would walk up the stairs after his self-harming, making sure he was still real, with an indifferent Sherlock trailing behind him.
He would flop himself down on the bed and close his eyes, but when he opened them, Sherlock would be standing beside his bed, looking at him with a concerned look on his face.
On this night however, Sherlock did something different. After John had clicked off his lamp and laid down, John watched Sherlock come lay down beside him.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and stared at him with a sad look in his eyes.
John started crying.
"God, Sherlock, I miss you. I miss you so much…"
John didn't sleep that night, he laid there looking at Sherlock, telling him how much he loved him and wanted him to come back between sobs.
The next day brought rain and a very tired John.
He walked downstairs, said good morning to Sherlock who had gotten up and left after John went to the restroom, and put on tea before noticing something.
He spun around and looked in the living room again.
There was Sherlock sitting on the couch, but there was also Sherlock standing in the doorway of the flat.
John closed his eyes tight and opened them again. Both Sherlock's were still there.
Never before had he seen two of them. He slowly walked over to the one on the couch and reached out and his hand passed through Sherlock's head. Just as it should.
He turned and walked over to the one in the doorway and reached out to him. Solid.
John sucked in a deep breath and started shaking. This was not normal. This was not right. Was his mind playing tricks again?
He ran his fingers down this Sherlock's face, feeling the solid warmth of skin. He ran his thumb over his lips, touched his nose, felt Sherlock's eyes flutter closed as he passed over his long lashes.
"John," this Sherlock said in his deep baritone voice.
John jumped back. Never had Sherlock talked to him before.
He looked behind him. The other Sherlock was still sitting on the couch looking thoughtfully at the floor.
He started to hyperventilate, his mind was indeed messing with him.
It was probably Lestrade he was seeing as Sherlock, or maybe Mrs. Hudson, because it couldn't actually be Sherlock, Sherlock was dead. Gone. Wasn't coming back and John knew that.
It was becoming too much. He was in too deep. He needed to make sure he was still real. Still here. He needed his razorblade. Needed to see real blood. Feel the warmth of blood flow down his arms. Ground himself.
He turned to run into the bathroom but Sherlock's long, slender fingers caught his wrist.
"John, listen to me. Look at me. John, please." Sherlock whispered.
John closed his eyes and shook his head. "You're not real. It's my mind. It's playing tricks," he said, trying to stop himself from shaking.
"No, it's me. It's really me. Look at me please."
John slowly turned and looked at him.
Greg Lestrade looked at him woefully. "See John? It's me, it's Sherlock."
John shook his head again and ground his teeth together, eyes closed. "It's not you. It's not!"
He looked at him again, Sherlock stood there, teary-eyed. "John, please, it is me."
"Let me go, Lestrade!" He fought out of his grip but he held on. "Let. GO!" He punched Sherlock in the throat, sending the taller man staggering back and giving John enough time to run to the bathroom and lock the door.
He reached for the box of blades in the medicine cabinet.
"John!" He heard Sherlock's voice shout out.
"You are not real!" he shouted back, cutting deep into his arm.
The sight of blood calmed him a bit, he verified that he was still here.
There was a pounding at the door. "John! Let me in! Don't do this to yourself!"
John made another cut, deeper than the last.
"Go away, GO AWAY!"
The hammering at the door didn't reside, but instead it sounded like he was trying to kick the door in.
"Why? Why isn't this working?" He sliced his arm twice more.
"John! John! Don't hurt yourself! Open the door! Please!"
"Leave me alone! You're not real!" Another cut.
Blood dripped onto the floor. Sherlock kicked at the door harder.
"Lestrade told me what has been happening to you! I'm real John! I'm solid! Please open the door! Let me prove it!"
"You're dead! DEAD! I saw you jump! I checked your pulse! You're gone! Not real! It's my mind! All in my mind!"
A deeper cut. The blade bit at his skin, he could feel it but it wasn't working anymore.
"John, please! Open the door! I'm begging you!"
The wood was starting to splinter with each kick.
John stepped back and looked behind him. Sherlock was laying face up on the floor, just like he was after the fall, blood covered the tile.
"No, no, no, NO!" John screamed, ripping at his skin now, blood pouring down his arm.
His left arm was covered in deep, red cuts, the pain getting worse, and yet both Sherlock's remained.
"I'm not crazy! You're not real! NOT REAL!"
"Please! John!" More banging.
John held his hands up to his head, tears running down his face. "I can't do this anymore! I'm driving myself insane!"
He held the razorblade to his throat, shaking, and not even bothering to hold back the loud sobs he made now.
"No, John! Don't hurt yourself! Don't do it!" The kicking at the door grew harder, more determined.
John looked back at Sherlock, his blank eyes staring into nothingness.
"Now I'll finally be able to be with you," he smiled sadly. "I love you Sherlock."
The door burst open as John slid the blade across his throat and collapsed to the floor.