John's Blog

Chapter 1: In The Beginning

I can't really feel much, anymore, to be honest. I mean, I most definitely feel pain, but I feel sort of...empty. Although, I'm not quite sure 'empty' covers it. I feel as though someone has ripped my soul from my body, leaving me an empty, strange, depressed shell of a once respected man. I can't exactly remember much from before I met him. I remember I was in Afghanistan. I remember I trained at Barts. I remember I'm a doctor (although I'm not really sure how to be one anymore). But up until the day we met, everything sort of seems a dreary, repetitive blur. With him, it was exciting, new, interesting (even if he was a massive dick). And honestly, I'm scared. I'm petrified. I don't want to go back to that boring man I was before. I don't want anything. Well, that's a lie. There is one thing I do want, but unfortunately, he lies 6 feet under.

It took me a few weeks to finally be able to go back to the flat. In that time, I'd been staying at Molly's. Not in any way other than purely platonic. She helped me survive the first few weeks, I kept her up at night with my screams. So I guess you could say that I owe her. Eventually, Molly was able to guilt trip me into moving back into the flat, saying that Mrs Hudson needs me and she's all alone. However, seeing as I'm no help to poor Mrs Hudson, I figure that Molly simply wanted to have a peaceful nights' sleep.

I don't do much during my days. I usually just sit in my old armchair, staring emptily at the space he would sit. Occasionally, if I focused hard enough, I could imagine him there. Legs crossed, a look of utter determination on his face as he prattles on about this and that. I only ever did that if Mrs Hudson weren't there, though. Because afterwards, I'm always left grovelling on the floor, begging pathetically for the semi-transparent Sherlock to become solid and alive. Oh, there it is. I said his name. I hate doing that. It's as though the name burns on my tongue, searing my throat and sending a fiery pain down to my heart. Not unlike another name. I refuse to say that foul word, but see if you can't deduce who it is. I'll give you some clues;

•He was close to Sherlock

•I hate him

•He IS the British government

•I hate him

•His name starts with M.

Now, it's obviously not Moriarty, so if you can't figure out who the man is, you're probably wasting your time reading this stupid blog. Sherlock's name sends a burning fire into my heart, whereas THIS name sends a white-hot rage surging through my entire being. Honestly, I don't know how I ever put up with him. He's a swine. A bastard. Unworthy of the name 'Holmes'. A traitor. A coward. I would NEVER sell out my family! (Calm down, John). Just to show how much I hate him, I will give you all a recap of the last time I saw him.

(3 days after Sherlock's...fall.)

I was sitting quietly on the park bench in the rain, staring emptily at nothing and wishing it all away, when I heard footsteps crunching along the grass. I didn't look up; I didn't want to socialise.

"Hello, John."

That voice. That god damned voice that haunts my dreams. My head snapped up at him, and I glared daggers into his dull blue eyes, imagining what would happen if I knocked them out of his head.

"Listen, I understand that you may be a bit angry-"

"Save it."

"I'm sorry?"

"Save it, Mycroft." I remember spitting the name out as though it were venom, "you do not have the right to speak to me. Come near me again, and I will kill you."

"John, please! You must understand!"

I was on my feet so fast he didn't have time to blink before he was on the ground, clutching his bleeding nose and broken umbrella with me crouching above him, my gun pressed to his temple.

"You. Are. Not. Worthy. You DARE speak to me? You are a traitor! A coward! I hate you! I would give anything to pull this trigger right now, but Sherlock would not wish me to get sent to jail over the likes of you."

"John, I-"

I pressed the barrel harder into his head, effectively replacing his muffled voice with a wince of pain and terror.

"I hate you, Mycroft Holmes. You are the most despicable, disgusting person I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. You are the reason your brother is dead. You are the reason my..." My voice had started to crack, "...best friend is dead. And I can never forgive you for that. Now sod off, before I change my mind and sink my lovely bullet into that selfish brain of yours."

Mycroft gave me one more searching look before he scrambled to his feet and stormed off, wiping the blood from his nose. I sank further to the ground, tears already forming in my eyes. I will not cry. I will not cry.

I cried.