Losing My Mind (Miss Me?)
Prologue: Realization
A/N: My first work in the most addicting fandom I've ever joined. So, this idea has been floating around in my head for a bit and, even though it's extremely flawed, is getting posted anyway. First part of the title inspired by the Daughtry song. Poor John is trying to cope as best as he can, but life just isn't having it. Enjoy!
Disclaim: I own nothing but my story and ideas. Everything else is property of BBC and Doyle.
John sighed heavily with exhaustion, slowly getting out of the cab in front of Baker Street. He'd not gotten a single minute to rest all day, the surgery full of patients from the moment they'd opened until the moment he could finally leave. He was looking forward to a nice hot shower and dinner when he got into the flat. This is what his life had come to, this vicious unending cycle: eat, have nightmares, work, repeat. Except for his weekly venture for groceries and the usual visits from Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson's checking in, John remained holed up in 221B outside of work as of late, consumed by his thoughts. It had been two years since that day, that dreadful, heart-shattering day. Every waking moment he spent alone and every time he closed his eyes, his mind replayed their last conversation together over the phone, the sight of his best friend plummeting to his death from the roof of Bart's. It was worse than any war flashback he'd ever had. John always knew the detective was different from anyone he'd ever met. Under his seemingly uncaring outward appearance and brilliant mind was a kind, compassionate, loving man whose heart was a complicated, unsolvable puzzle.
His thoughts were interrupted by a stranger bumping into him, causing him John to drop his keys. "Apologies," the stranger, a man, said. John waved him off politely, only catching a glimpse of a long, dark coat as he bent down to pick up his- Wait. The doctor's head snapped up as he retrieved his keys, looking for the man. Finding him nowhere in sight, he sighed, shaking his head and opening the door to the building. His mind was playing tricks on him surely. Heading upstairs, he unlocked and opened the door to the flat, hanging up his coat before going to the kitchen to make some tea. The equipment remained scattered across the table and counters; John couldn't find the will to move anything even a hair away from its original spot. As he drank, he ignored the creak of the stairs and sound of footsteps, thinking Mrs. Hudson was checking on him. As he heard the door open softly, someone cleared their throat, and he looked up. If not for reflexes, his teacup would've smashed against the floor.
Standing in the doorway, exactly how he remembered him was… He couldn't even say his name, hadn't in the past two years, with the exception of his first/second to last therapy session, not after his plea at the cemetery. John's eyes widened, breath stuttering, heart pounding almost out of his chest. The consulting detective smiled sheepishly, stepping further into the room until they were barely a foot apart. John stood, not believing his eyes; he resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, to make sure he was real, and that was his first mistake. Suddenly, something in his mind clicked (or maybe gave way), a crazed grin spreading slowly across his face. Before Sherlock could get a word out, John began laughing hysterically, as if possessed, startling him. It went on for another minute before the army doctor finally regained his composure enough to speak.
"I've lost it, haven't I? I've finally lost it. But why today of all days?" Sherlock, brows furrowed, even more confused, tried once again to speak. He got the first part of John's name out before the man in question checked his phone and answered his own question. "Two years today, and here I thought the first year was bad." He shook his head, deciding that perhaps a cold shower might be better before dinner, at least to clear his thoughts. Sherlock took in his friend's words, observed his friend's crazed eyes, less than straight posture, vulnerable eyes, maniacal grin. It was almost as if he thought- Oh… OH.
"You think I'm a hallucination, a coping mechanism to deal with your loss of… me…"
"Oh, I know you are. You've been gone for two years and, well look around. I still can't let you go. You know," he began before his expression turned serious, "If you were real, I'd strangle you. Because that feeling of the life being choked out of you, that feeling of never being able to breathe again, not being able to think about anything but the terror of unconsciousness? That's how I've felt for the last two Goddamn years." He let out a harsh breath, hands on his head. Sherlock felt chills run rampant down his spine at the almost calm tone of voice John was speaking in, just a hint of the turbulent feelings hidden underneath it all. This was far from the emotional John he'd spent years living with in the past. Had his "death" affected John that much? Had he cared for him that deeply? The consulting detective couldn't come up with a response; no quips, silly remarks, gestures, nothing.
"I never…" he began in a whisper. Never what? He never knew? He never thought? He never considered? Of course he hadn't done any of those things. The possibility of something between them, something stronger than their perfectly ordinary friendship, had never crossed his mind, never showed up on his radar. He was pulled from his thoughts by John's continued rambling, the blonde-gray's voice now full of uncontained fury.
"I've tried to have a normal life for the last two years. I can't keep a stable relationship, can hardly go outside unless I absolutely have to. Hell! I'm almost as bad as you when it comes to taking care of myself! I barely eat, never go to sleep, sit for hours on end just devoured by my thoughts. Two years of Hell, two years of being an emotional wreck, just hoping that, maybe, one day, out of nowhere, you'd come back! You bastard!" John screamed, pain finally making itself known in his voice. Sherlock, devastated at the state of his friend, turned on his heel and quickly walked off to his room, door closing softly behind him. John was breathing heavily, shaking with emotion and failing to hold back the tears now silently streaming down his face as Mrs. Hudson peaks her head through the door, worry etched on her face.
"John, what's all this racket? Is everything alright?"
"It's nothing, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, voice as steady as he could make it, staring blankly into space. She didn't believe him for a second, but left him alone, door shutting quietly as she did so. John took a deep, shuddering breath, head spinning, mind going a mile a minute. He felt his knees buckle, sinking to the floor in front of his armchair and finally letting all the hurt and pain out. Sobs wracked his body, tears pouring from his eyes, mind and body no longer able to deny what he was feeling, the wounded sounds easily carrying through the flat and reaching Sherlock's ears.
Sherlock wrapped the sheets tighter around his thinner body, willing his mind to distract him from the agonizing sounds of his flatmate, his friend, his… his… his John's heart breaking all over again. Mycroft had been right. John hadn't welcomed him back with open arms upon his return. No, John had rejected the possibility of such a thing even being possible. No matter how hard he tried, however, he couldn't fall into his usual trance, couldn't reach his mind palace. The doors into the fortress were locked and barricaded from the inside, the windows blocked, the emergency entrances seemingly nowhere to be found. So, he sat and listened, endured the sounds that, for some reason, tugged at something deep inside, drawing his throat tight, making his eyes water. He tried as hard as he could to keep it together, which was a much harder task than it should've been. Finally, after what felt like years, the sounds stopped, but the lack of warmth, the feeling of not having returned home after all, remained in the air. Sleep did not come that night, for either of them.
Laying awake in bed, he realized that perhaps John wasn't the only one mourning the loss of someone close.
A/N: Short, I know, but the first chapter will be longer. As with my other fics, updates will be sporadic and all over the place. However, Sherlock has been my newest obsession. The proof of that would be that I binged the first 7 episodes of the show in one day (almost eleven hours straight of amazingness on a Sunday before school the next day), and finished the rest of them throughout the same week. So, maybe this'll get updated sooner, maybe not. Feel free to leave thoughts and questions if you have any. :)