Author's Note: Wrote this a long time ago, thought I'd post it up before Season 3 comes out in 2014.
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.
Rain
Ch1. Ground Zero (Prologue)
John wonders when it all began.
Was it when fate led him to chance upon Mike Stanford, who first introduced him into his life? Maybe it was when he stood frozen, paralyzed and rooted to the ground, watching helplessly as he jumped off the roof of St. Bart's and plummeted, impacting the pavement with a sickening, gut-wrenching crack. Or perhaps it was when he stared down impassively at the corpse at his feet, physically numb but an emotional whirlwind of chaotic mess, gun in steady hand smoking from the discharge of a bullet not ten seconds ago.
John wonders when it all began, and he barely registers that his body has moved of its own accord to leave the shady alley, taking care to sidestep the growing pool of blood on the ground lest the Yard discovers the murderer's – his (he may have been the one to pull the trigger, but he was the one who had killed his heart) – footprints, and make the cold, lonely trek back to 221B Baker Street.
He takes the route he has been taking for the past two years or so, the one that allows him to slip past Mycroft's ever-watchful surveillance cameras. Thanks to his ridiculous sibling feud, John knows how to move around London mostly undetected. He had learnt from the best after all. All the older Holmes brother will be able to catch are snippets of his journey back to the flat, pieces of a puzzle he will no doubt have little difficulty solving, but John is willing to take what he can get.
John wonders when it all began, and he mentally sifts through the past few years of his life as his body robotically walks on, frantically trying to lose himself in memories of the past. The remnants of happier times slip past his broken psyche, leaving him floundering and drowning in whatever darkness remains. The cracks widen even further when flashes from the alley start to seep through, flooding his mind with acid, reminding him that something has changed, that someone had lied to him, that Sherlock –
The fragile control he has been slowly, painfully building up over the past two years finally disintegrates, allowing memories from the alley to catch up to him and slam hard into his mind, making him double over and clutch his head as the Browning L9A1 slips from now trembling fingers and onto the living room floor. With mild surprise, some part of John notes that he has arrived back at the flat, silent and unnoticed as usual, but maybe with a more reasonable purpose this time. It is the dead of night and it simply will not do to wake dear old Mrs Hudson.
"He's right, y'know. The lot of them are stupid, running and hiding like cowards while he hunts 'em down."
Another wave of memories assaults him and he lets out an involuntary gasp, flinching as though someone has socked him in the gut.
"That bloody detective ain't dead. Last I heard he's in Persia -"
Shaking violently, John grips his head tighter and fists his hair.
"How's it feel knownin' yer best mate lied to ya?"
With everything he has known in the world without him crashing down and crumbling to pieces before his eyes, John finally collapses and crumples to the floor, unconscious.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Comments are greatly appreciated :)