Shadows
Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and, in this case, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. What also belong to them are the small references to The Reichenbach Fall. Thank you so much BBC!
The story, however, is completely made up, along with some of the victims/ murderers.
A/n: this is my first ever fanficition so please, please be nice . And please, please review I want to know what you all think! If its rubbish, please tell me what to do to make it better, constructive criticism is welcome!
Chapter 1- the end of the end
JW-
Wednesday 16th Nov
When I woke up, I was aware of 3 things:
1. I was crying
2. I was crying because of Sherlock
3. It was exactly 5 months today since he died.
Well. Killed himself.
Why the hell did he kill himself?
I sat up, my heart pounding and head spinning. I was breathing heavily and tears streamed from my eyes. I tried to rub them away.
I remembered that day. He told me he was a fake, that he had researched me, that he'd invented Moriarty. He'd jumped off a building. I'd watched him fall. Watched him hit the ground.
And now I was back in my old flat, just how it had started after the war like a horrific déjà vu. As if it had all been a dream. As if he'd never existed.
I had nightmares every night again. Nightmares of Him. Every night I woke up with my face wet from sobbing, my left hand shaking and my breathing ragged. I lost him over and over again. Every night.
Yet after all of that, my psychiatrist still insisted that I wrote a blog.
I'd started seeing her again every week, because I just didn't know what else to do. What could I do?
All I had had inside me was a terrible hollow emptiness that left me numb and cold. It was as if my heart had been cut out. The hole hurt. It hurt terribly.
Oh god it hurt.
My psychiatrist told me that it was perfectly normal, but I never missed the worry in her eyes after I told her. I knew it wasn't normal.
I hated seeing her. But it got me out the flat. Otherwise I never went out. I couldn't go out. How could I when every street held memories. Memories of Him. Memories of us.
But he was gone and he was never coming back.
Suddenly it hit me in a wave of terrible pain. It overwhelmed me. It felt like a knife twisting in my chest. I was shaking and sweating. I gasped sharply, doubling over with the pain, hugging myself tightly.
And then I gave in. I curled up and let the tears stream onto my pyjama bottoms as my shoulders shook violently. I had to release my emotions. Especially today. All I could see was Him. The hole burned and twisted.
It took me a while to compose myself and I rubbed my eyes.
I stared across at the bland desk. My laptop was open, screen blank. I couldn't stand seeing blank and empty, so I got up from the bed and turned it on, subconsciously opening the blog.
Now what? I stared at the page.
It was too hard. Too hard to look at the old blogs, the adventures we had had. The comments we'd left. Too hard to even see the last comment posted last June:
'He was my best friend and I will always believe in him.'
5 blasted months on and I still believed in him. Somewhere in this burning hollow shell I still believed that I was going to wake up in Baker Street, in my room, and find Him lying across the couch, 3 nicotine patches on his bare arm, eyes closed, fingers pressed to his chin as if in prayer. The same old thing.
But not anymore.
Never again.
I reached for the tissues, and wiped my eyes, then pinched the bridge of my nose. I'm a soldier, I shouldn't cry. I didn't usually cry. Usually, I could contain my emotions.
When did I ever get so dependent on that man? That arrogant, stuck up, brilliant, wonderful man.
He had changed my worthless life, become my best friend.
And then he had just left me on my own. With nothing.
Well. Committed suicide.
Tears flooded my eyes again.
I blinked to clear my eyes, then gasped.
I had somehow updated my blog with a new comment:
'Sherlock why did you have to go?'
Did I really just write that? I hadn't written a thing since it happened.
God help me.
I felt that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. A hopelessness came over me which I could not control. I felt myself sinking, deeper and deeper into the darkness. The hole hurt so badly.
Oh god, not this.
I practically ran to the bathroom, my fumbling fingers searching for the open packet of anti-depressants my psychiatrist had subscribed to me after I'd hit a real low. I swallowed it without water and stood in the bathroom doorway silently, leaning heavily on the door frame, eyes closed, trying to fight the depression. I'd suffered from it for months now. I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve and sighed.
I felt trapped. I felt numb and empty.
I wanted to…
NO! STOP IT JOHN!
I couldn't think that. Ever.
It took me longer than it should have to realise the strange buzzing noise was a text coming through. I'd been cut off for so long, I'd given up the use of my phone. It was still in my bag. The bag I'd taken here when it had become too unbearable to stay at my old flat.
Our old flat.
No! Shut up John, you idiot! Said a detached hollow part of myself. The pain in my chest made me gasp.
I unzipped my bag and found my phone. It felt strange to hold it in my hand. I unlocked it long enough to see the text.
Meet me at Lauriston Gardens, Brixton
That was it. Meet me at Lauriston Gardens. It was from a number I didn't recognise at all.
The detached John looked at it warily, sensing danger. Probably some psychopath who had gotten hold of my number and was bored.
It was funny really how the word 'bored' caused my heart to ache for my best friend. Caused my heart to twist.
But I didn't listen to myself. Numbly, I texted back, not really caring:
Who are you?
It took less than a minute to reply:
Come to Lauriston Gardens, Brixton
Yep, definitely a psychopath. Oddly enough I didn't care. I actually didn't care if they were or not. What did it matter anyway? My life was a worthless mass of nightmares and psychiatrist meetings and visits to His grave. What did I have to lose? It would be an adventure anyway. My last adventure.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, not bothering with the gun I'd put back in the same draw I'd kept it last time. What was the point of having one? I pulled on a jumper, locked up, caught a cab and drove off to Lauriston Gardens.
It was only then did I realise that it was at Lauriston Gardens that Sherlock and I had found our first case.
The Study In Pink.
I nearly started sobbing again.
'Sherlock what the hell did you do to me?' I rubbed my eyes to make sure they were dry.
"Here you are," the cabbie pulled over and I got out, tossing him some money with a word of thanks.
It was very quiet.
Of course it was quiet, it was 3.30 in the morning. I reminded myself with a humourless laugh. I hadn't checked the time until now. I glanced across the empty, rain streaked road and started walking down the wet street, trying to force myself not to remember the last time I'd been here with Him. I straightened my back and swallowed my tears, ignoring the throbbing pain in my chest. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, hugging my chest. As if it would help keep me in one piece.
I forced myself to stop somewhere along the street.
I pulled out my phone and texted the stranger:
I'm here.
I stood and waited, my back to the house where we'd discovered the body. It was too painful to look at. To remember. I guess this is all I had to do. Just stand and wait. I wondered if it really was a psychopath and if this was my last moment. It seemed strangely welcoming.
God I needed stronger anti- depressants…
"You came,"
The voice came from behind me. Sad and weak and cracked. My entire body went rigid, my phone slipped from my trembling fingers and smashed on the floor.
No, it couldn't be.
No.
No,no,no,no,no!
He's dead!
'Great, now I'm hallucinating!'
"John?"
I just kept my back turned, eyes tightly shut.
I'm hallucinating, I'm hallucinating. Maybe it will pass. 'My psychiatrist is going to have a fit if I tell her this'. I thought, slightly frightened myself for my own sanity. Was I really missing him that much? My chest started burning again. I struggled to keep standing.
I shook my head sharply as if to get rid of an irksome fly.
He's dead! It's not him. It can't be him.
I tried to regain my senses. I took deep, shuddering breaths and tried to calm down.
The voice had gone. I thought it had stopped.
I was about to relax.
But then it started again.
"John please look at me,"
The voice had moved to in front of me now.
Oh god I'm going mad.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
But then the depressed part of me reasoned. Would it matter, really, if I opened my eyes? It was just a voice after all. As soon as I open my eyes I'll realise that I am crazy after all, that it's just a voice, but who cares? I'll just go back to my meaningless life again after. Nothing will change.
So I open my eyes.