There are dark days, sometimes. Days where John awakes to see Sherlock lying blind on the sofa, nicotine patch or track marks scarring his forearm. The former is preferable, of course, but it still hurts. There is never any warning for days like this, but John knows what to do. He picks a used syringe from the floor, snaps the needle, and throws it in the trash. John tells Sherlock to sit still. Makes him tea and reads him the paper. But Sherlock's eyes are frantic – mind racing. He solves a case or two. Calls it a productive day.
Sherlock claims he isn't an addict. John often wishes he would truly look himself in the mirror.
With the bad come the good, though. The nights John breathes for. The two of them, running through the night, the wind at their backs and moon on the horizon. Adrenaline like no other fills John's veins. He is a soldier in a winning war. And he remembers why he's standing here and why he's alive and why his legs can move without inhibition. It's all because of him, that outstanding man who saved him. This lifestyle is something John is destined for. The enemies they face. The hardships. Everything is worth the sense of belonging which fills his lungs with every deep breath and soaks him in the pouring rain. His happiness grows. And it grows, on it grows.
Finally, for the first time in a long while, John is learning to walk. It comes naturally with him, but alone, it's an entirely different story. He walks up the stairs to his bedroom, down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's. Walks to the tube and walks to Tesco. Sherlock notices the improvement and John smiles. Nothing will ever escape his brilliant mind. He takes his time from then on. Savouring their moments together – no matter how seemingly insignificant. He washes the dishes with a steady hand. Watches television by the fireplace, Sherlock's foot stretching forward to reach his own. Together, they're learning how to take their time. Every day is better than the last.
Until Sherlock stands on the roof of Barts, phone in hand and tears in his eyes. John begs him to stop. Stop whatever he's doing. John's grip tightens, knuckles turning white. He convinces himself it must be some elaborate plan to outsmart Moriarty and be gone of the horrid press. Either that, or the angels plan to take Sherlock away and lay his body six feet beneath clay. The fear grows. And it grows, on it grows.
Rightfully so. The line goes blank, Sherlock throwing his phone to the side. John watches. Everything goes silent. The immediate emptiness deafens him. And within one second, John's whole world is gone. He sees Sherlock falling through the shadows, burning to dust as his body crashes against the pavement. Knocked to the ground, white floods his vision. He can't fathom it. Can't comprehend what has just occurred. John stumbles towards the redness – Christ, that redness – and stares down at his friend. His friend. His best friend. John sheds a tear and Sherlock's cheek rusts. But he's not a machine. He never has been.
It's like learning to walk all over again, without him. Learning to walk without a cane – without his pillar of support. He learns to arrive home to an empty house, kitchen void of experiments. He learns to sleep without the tune of Sherlock's violin lulling him into a peaceful slumber. Rather, his nights are now restless, nightmares plaguing him until his voice is hoarse and sweat stains his pillow. He learns to make tea for one and to sit in his lone armchair, staring into the space which was once his. But he's gone now. And he's not coming back. John learns to turn his back. The angels have taken Sherlock away, laid his body six feet beneath clay. There is no point trying to salvage something beyond repair. Instead, John sinks. The desolation consumes him. And it grows, on it grows.
He's as angry as the hills. Sometimes, he lashes out, fists beating into his bed or the bench or the mirror as screams rip his throat raw. His knuckles bleed, but then he thinks of Sherlock's pain and his own becomes irrelevant. Other times, John sits on Sherlock's bed, back straight as he stares at the wall opposite. His eyes are vacant and his frame is thin, any indication of previous muscle destroyed by the culmination of drink and malnourishment. He imagines Sherlock before him – a mind and eyes both set to kill. They smile at John. Compliment him subtly and fill the hole in his heart. Maybe that John may learn to take his time. Maybe that he may learn to walk. But John is no longer a soldier.
Instead, maybe that he may learn to turn his back once more.
Newspaper in his hands, the wrong date decorates the corner of the page. His eyes run over the words, but he's not reading. Not really. Instead, he recalls a time where another sat by his side, reading a book or sipping tea as they sat in companionable silence. The newspaper is from before then. Before the void swallowed John whole and left him a lone, pathetic figure, with a penchant for the blues. The more days pass, the more the emptiness grows. And it grows, on it grows.
He sits back, drink in hand, and recalls a better time. When things were normal. When he was by John's side.