Trigger warnings: Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Possible Suicide of Major Character DO NOT READ FURTHER IF THESE ARE YOUR TRIGGERS PLEASE!
"Life.
It's what happens when you weren't looking. The world continues to spin. People fall in and out of love. Seasons change. Time doesn't stand still, doesn't freeze, and that's probably the cruelest thing of all. Your life is over. It comes crashing down, literally. And, the world doesn't stop for anyone else but you."
John snapped his laptop closed. It was the most he'd written since Sherlock fell, and it took him all day to do it. He looked out the window, the grey, rainy London day reflecting his mood. He sighed. There was nothing out there for him anymore. No excitement, no laughter, no Sherlock. His limp and tremor had returned with a vengeance and he could no longer even do locum work. He sat around his dingy flat, having long ago left 221B, doing nothing all day long. Some days he barely managed to have tea. The irony was not lost on him that he would have scolded Sherlock for doing the exact same thing.
The sun sunk lower and the flat descended into darkness. This was the only part of the day John liked. In the stillness of the dark, he could close his eyes and listen to the dark. He could swear he heard the dark whispering to him some nights. Never loud enough that he could make out the words, but he could almost distinguish the voice. He knew it was his imagination, his mind slowly descending into madness, but he would swear that the voice sounded like Sherlock.
John closed his eyes and let the whispers wash over him. They started low, like the rustling of leaves from far away. Whispered syllables fell over him in time with the pattering of the rain on the window panes. He smiled, welcoming an old friend.
Then one night, the whispers stopped. At first, John thought it was a fluke. The day had been sunny and he'd actually had a laugh at an overheard conversation from the hallway. He blamed himself for being happy for a moment. He couldn't risk losing his only connection to Sherlock, so the next day he closed all the curtains, keeping the flat in total darkness, and did something he hadn't done in a long time. He took out Sherlock's coat and inhaled. Sherlock's scent still clung to it, barely. It brought tears to John's eyes and he sobbed. Maybe now the whispers would return.
But they didn't. John began to worry he'd forget what Sherlock's voice sounded like without the voices in the dark. He never thought that'd he'd miss going mad. If he couldn't have Sherlock, he at least wanted the voices, and now he'd lost both.
For the first time in months, John left the flat for some other reason than to go to Tesco. He knew enough from his time with Sherlock to know where to go to get the information he wanted. If you had asked John 3 years ago if he'd ever consider doing PSP, he would have looked at you in absolute horror. Now, he felt it was his only option. He'd lost Sherlock twice now, once physically and now his mind was betraying him, refusing him access to the voices. PCP seemed to be the only option to get them back. John was desperate and he knew it. If he wanted any sort of result, he had to go all the way. Sherlock would be proud. Wouldn't he?
John sat in his chair, staring at the small yellow pills. He'd gotten what he'd gone out for. He also realized that it was possible Mycroft or Greg knew he had them. He'd better take them now, before one of them could stop him. He popped them in his mouth and gulped them down with a glass of water, not caring if he overdosed or not. It wasn't the quickest way to get the drug into his system, but it would keep someone from taking it away from him. He sat back and waited in the dark.
"JOHN! What have you done?" he heard as the door crashed down. He was both relieved and confused. It was too soon for the drugs to have taken effect, but he heard Sherlock's voice. He finally understood the words as he greeted the dark.