Author's Note: I am actually quite scared, as this is my first Sherlock fanfic. This chapter is a bit short, but I felt the length was right. The next few chapters will be longer. Please, read and review, and I shall update more frequently. Come talk to me on Tumblr (I am stephanieloren on there)!
Warning: This story is rated "M" for language and eventual smut.
Disclaimer: All characters except my own are property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Bless him.
The muse for this chapter (as well as the rest of the story) is the song "Into Dust" by Mazzy Star. On with the show!
The cold mist hung thick in the air, stinging his lungs with every breath he took. It seemed to suffocate him. It was dark and silent. The dreadful weather was always accompanied by empty streets. The silence could be considered deafening. Most people would compare a walk during that time of night, during that sort of weather, with the experience of drowning.
He was already drowing.
In actuality, he felt dead. He was only reminded of his existance when someone spoke to him, and even then, their voices seemed muffled. When someone touched him, either by accident or in an attempt to console him, it felt as if he was never touched in the first place. He felt numb. He felt nothing.
John Watson continued to walk down the quiet street, only the occasional car breaking the calm. Walking. Walking.
Falling.
Just as Sherlock...
His thoughts began. He had to physically stop on the sidewalk, pleading with his mind not to return to that dark corner where he pushed all of his raw emotions and unpleasant memories. He felt his eyes begin to dampen, and he took a quick inhale of air. Drowning.
It had been six months since...well, since.
He gripped his cane tighter, clinching his other fist in an attempt to supress the growing ache in his chest. He looked up from the sidewalk and into the glass of a restaurant. He stared at his reflection. Pale. Darkened circles around his eyes, which appeared dull and faded. Such a contrast...
To his eyes.
Memories crashed into John's mind. Sherlock's brilliant blue eyes, always searching and analyzing, full of intelligence. There were moments when John caught tenderness within them. While Sherlock failed to find the words to express his feelings, his eyes did not.
John stared into the restaurant, the familiar setting causing the ache in his chest to rise even more. Memories of that evening, sitting at Angelo's, played through his mind.
"What do people have in their real lives?"
"Friends. People they like, people they don't like, boyfriends, girlfriends..."
John cut the memory off. As he walked away from the window, his cheeks damp with escaped tears and his eyes downcast, he could feel eyes watching him from across the street. He pushed the feeling aside. It didn't matter if they watched him or not. He had nothing for them. For anyone.
The numbness swallowed him whole again as he pushed his emotions into that dark corner of his mind. He didn't feel the rain as it slowly began to pour.
...
John stopped at the door, his hand hovering over its surface. He had not visited 221B Baker Street since the funeral.
Occasionally, he would meet Mrs. Hudson out for tea, or the dear woman would even come to visit him at his small, musty flat. They would hold small conversations that John never invested in. He couldn't. It was exhausting to even try to put on a mask to hide...
Temporary, he had told himself. The flat was just temporary. He would return to Baker Street, if only for a moment. Perhaps to collect a few of his things he had forgotten, or to help Mrs. Hudson with anything she needed, and move on. He hadn't ruled out looking through Sherlock's belongings. Mrs. Hudson had asked him to help sort through them months ago, but he couldn't return to the flat. She understood why.
The door to 221B Baker Street seemed to be shaking. No, that wasn't right. It was, in fact, staying completely still. John was shaking. His left hand shook, hovering over the door, as a war raged inside John's head. He tried to decide whether to knock or simply leave. But nothing is ever simple.
It's just a damn door! Why can't I...
His thought trailed off as he visualized himself knocking on the door, Sherlock answering it and rushing him inside and up the stairs...
"Lestrade has a new case, John! A triple homicide! All three victims have what seem to be bite marks at the base of their necks, indicating either vampiric cult rituals, or even fascination..."
John stopped in the doorway of the flat and simply let him talk. He knew Sherlock would explain again later, when he wrapped the case up in a dramatic monologue. John often got lost within the twists and turns of Sherlock's speech. He continued speaking, nearly dancing around the room at the thought of a possible serial killer.
He was across the room when he walked up to John, his long legs making it possible in about three strides. Sherlock placed both of his hands on John's shoulders and stared into his eyes.
His eyes. They pierced through layers of John's cloudy thoughts, always seeming to know where to find the piece of information or affirmation that Sherlock wanted. John assumed Sherlock had a map of his brain stored away inside his "hard-drive".
The closeness and warmth of Sherlock's body sent waves of comfort through John and he closed his eyes.
When John opened them again, the door to 221B Baker Street still stood closed. The cold, winter wind stung his eyes, but he knew that was not the cause of them watering. His hand, still hovering over the door, uncurled and he placed his plam upon it. Cold.
He closed his eyes again and inhaled deeply, the air still thick. His tense frame stood silently, trying to gather himself up. Fighting, but giving in. Drowning.
John let his hand slide down the door, and limped down to the sidewalk. Regret already in his heart, he glanced up at the window of their old flat. He imagined Sherlock's figure standing there, watching him with calculating and curious eyes.
If only he could look into them again.