John wasn't quite sure exactly how it started. Or what possessed him to do it.
Well that wasn't quite true. He had an idea of at least why it was happening.
He'd watched Sherlock jump.
John had seen men die before. Unfortunately it was part of the job description of being in Afghanistan. He had been there for years. Seen men, women, and children taken out by snipers. Seen friends just a few yards in front of him blown to pieces by IEDs. While he was there it was just a part of life. You were lucky if you went days without having to go through the pain of losing someone. Sometimes you just ended up numb to it all. John had seen the worse of the worst. The nightmares of blood and anguished cries that used to haunt him in the night were filled with them, even after he had gotten back to London
Death had become a constant companion in his life. John was used to it. As much as any human can be used to death. His still mourned and grieved for those he loved but he had built a shell to protect himself. He had been forced to, really. He didn't let people into the walls. It had taken him a while to realize that he had even needed the walls around his heart.
His first year in service he didn't have those walls. The first time he had lost a friend he nearly lost himself in grief.. then came the second.. and the third.. and the fourth, until he realized he would be driven to madness if he didn't protect himself.
So John had devised the perfect plan, simply to save his sanity. He had friends, many friends, but he kept them at a bit of a distance.. never letting them too close.. never letting them too far in. And when the day came that they were taken from the world it wasn't so bad. He still grieved for his lost friend, but he kept his sanity. He kept the pieces of himself that would have otherwise been lost in the misery and morning of a friend.
John was lonely. But he was safe. Protected. He wouldn't have to handle that kind of pain again.
But Sherlock had been different. He was like no one John had ever known. He'd been utterly swept away by the madman, and what was more is that he had chosen Sherlock. Chose to live with him, follow him running after serial killers and criminals around London.
He had chosen a life with Sherlock.
Throughout his life he had always aimed for the goal of eventually marrying, having children, maybe even a dog and a white picket fence. He'd chased after the idea, even after his life simply began to orbit around Sherlock.
But the more and more he found himself trying to chase that goal after Sherlock had come into his life, the more and more he found it was simply not for him.
He tried dates. He was quite enthusiast and hopeful with each girlfriend. He would take them out on the town and even bring them back to Baker Street on occasion, but Sherlock always chased them away. At first it made him angry. Sherlock thought he was being purposely oblivious about how he chased them away, or called John to more exciting things during a date, but John knew that wasn't the case. He always knew.
John had been Sherlock's only friend. At least his only best friend. Probably the very first one he'd ever had. It was obvious that he didn't want to share John. Not with anyone. And eventually John found that he didn't mind. He told himself it was because Sherlock was exciting. He made his life exciting, and fun. It was never boring. Never mediocre. It was exactly what John needed.
Chasing after criminals and staying up all hours of the night kept his nightmares away after he would finally pass out from exhaustion. His leg never bothered him again. The pain in his shoulder would come back but it only reminded him that he had a life worth living now. A life of excitement and thrills and companionship that would be with him for the rest of his life.
It all ended on the rooftop of St. Bart's.
It all ended with a fall.
It all ended with blood on the pavement.
It all ended with a body with no pulse.
It all ended with lifeless blue eyes.
John's watched his world end that day. Watched the future he had chosen crash around him. Watched the one person he let tear down his walls, his defenses, end his life in front of his eyes.
Sherlock made John watch the end of his everything.
John wasn't sure how he made it back to Baker Street that day. He couldn't remember. His mind wouldn't stop playing the images in his head.
Sherlock fell.
Sherlock died.
Over.
And over.
And over.
And over again.
It wouldn't stop.
And John crashed.
He stopped remembering the days. They all blurred together into one nightmare. Never ending. No escape. Only pain.
Sherlock had been his best friend. His whole life. His excitement. His joy. Gone. All gone.
Sometimes people tried to visit him. He simply sat in his seat and stared at Sherlock's empty chair. No one dared to sit in it. He was thankful for at least that. He didn't hear what they said, he couldn't put the words together. He could only hear them babble. Like a different language. He didn't understand. Although, to be honest, he didn't really want to.
He did catch a few glimpses of phrases when they mentioned Sherlock's name. They stopped because he kept flinching in pain at the sound of it. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would try to coax him into eating a bit. Only to cry when she would see the biscuits and tea that she left last time, cold and untouched on the small table.
Part of John didn't understand why he was grieving so much. Some of his visitors would mention how it wasn't normal for John to be this way. Sherlock had been his friend but he wasn't acting like someone who had lost just their friend. He was acting like someone who had lost their reason for existence. Their reason for living.
John didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about how the last few months something had been changing between the two of them, slowly opening up more and more possibilities. The potential had been there, and for the time being they had both chosen to ignore it, both knowing that it wouldn't be ignored for too much longer.
He slipped into oblivion after thanking about that.
...
John woke up a few days later.
He knew it had been days because he wasn't at home. He was in the hospital. It shouldn't have surprised him. Not really. He hadn't really eaten since the day Sherlock fell. He closed his eyes tight, trying desperately to keep the memories away.
"Sherlock wouldn't want you to be like this."
John's eyes snapped open at the sound of the sudden deep voice. Mycroft sat in the chair next to his bed. His perfect three piece suit was unruffled, untouched. His umbrella perched across his lap. Sherlock would have hated it.
John found himself suddenly trying to blink away the tears that seemed to come out of nowhere as Mycroft watched every thought flash across his face. It reminded him too much of the look Sherlock used to give him when he thought John was being particularly puzzling or unreasonable.
"Please leave." He stated simply. He didn't even recognize his own voice.. it had been so long since he had used it himself.
He just wanted Mycroft to leave. He didn't want to sit here and talk about Sherlock. He didn't want it analyzed why he was grieving so hard when he didn't really understand it fully himself. He just wanted to be left alone.
"I needed to talk to you Doctor Watson." he said as he kept John pinned with his eyes, as if to keep him from running. As if he could run.
"I don't want to talk. Go away." he spoke softly. He really just wanted to be left alone, but he knew the words would be useless.
"I'm afraid I can't do that Doctor Watson. You're in here because you refuse to eat. You refuse to move from your chair, or talk to those who are concerned and come to visit with you. You know Sherlock would have not wanted you to live like this." he said with an strange calm in his voice. Almost detached, but not quite able to.
"How the fuck would you know what Sherlock would have wanted!" He snapped. He swallowed quickly, the taste of Sherlock's name bitter on his tongue. He closed his eyes tight, refusing to meet the gaze that was so much like his brother's.
"I do know that he cared for you.." The words were surprisingly soft. Almost like someone would talk to a crazed animal, trying to get them to calm down.. to not be afraid of what was in front of them. John had used that voice himself many times for patients.
"I also know that the reason he jumped off of the roof was for you.. And for Mrs. Hudson and Gregory Lestrade.." John watched as Mycroft reached into a pocket and pulled out a phone. Sherlock's phone.
"I strongly suggest that you listen to this, and reevaluate how you are living, and what Sherlock did so that you could live.. You and I both know you wouldn't want to waste that sacrifice.." He remarked almost offhandedly as he stood from the chair to leave. "Call me if you need anything. I can get you the best help if you want it, but I need you to try.. If you don't I will take matters into my own hands.. and you know I can." he said walking out the door.
John sat frozen, staring at the now empty door. Would Mycroft honestly have him committed for grieving too much for his brother? He couldn't be that worried. John fumed. Leave it to Mycroft to want to be in control of everything, even his grieving.
He needed to find a way to deal with this. Because if John was honest with himself, he wasn't dealing. It wasn't normal. John needed a way to grieve and be left alone.
...
He was released after a few days. They had made him eat. Tried to make him gain some of the weight he had lost in the weeks since Sherlock's death. The doctor's gave him prescriptions for helping with sleeping, and recommended that he eat regularly and see someone to help with his grieving. He simply nodded and left for Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson was there to greet him at the door. She had tears in her eyes and ushered him up the stairs where she had been cooking for him. He hadn't realized that she had been the one that had found him unconscious and called the ambulance until she had started rambling about how much of a scare he had given her. He had worried her and he hadn't realized. It made him feel terrible. It gave him another reason to want to hide his grief. He needed to protect those around him from knowing just how much he was hurting. Just how much pain he was in after loosing Sherlock.
He nibbled on the biscuit and took small sips of the tea. He didn't want a lot but even the little bit made her smile. He smiled back at her. It hurt to smile and he knew it was probably all wrong. It seemed to convince Mrs. Hudson though. She patted him on the knee and rushed back downstairs promising to come back tomorrow with a bit of food for him.
John sighed in relief when she left. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. Sherlock's phone. He would know that phone anywhere. He wasn't really sure why. A lot of people had the same phone but he could see the features that made it Sherlock's. There was no lock on it. The wallpaper was plain and unchanged. He never bothered to try to customize it. The contacts had two names in it. John and Mycroft. He blinked away tears as he looked at his name, typed by Sherlock. The back of the phone simply had a small SH inscribed into the back of it and a few scratches from being shoved into his coat pocket and dropped during crime scenes.
He took a few deep breaths and opened up the Voice Memos and began to listen.
It was hard. Listening to Sherlock's voice. It seemed like an eternity ago that his voice was a constant in John's life. Now it was gone. He blinked away tears wondering what exactly he was listening for, when the conversation took a turn.
"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. Now shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it." Moriarty's voice rang out.
"Do it. Do what? Yes, of course. My suicide." John wanted to cry at the words.
"Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales... and pretty grim ones too.."
"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."
"Oh just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort. Go on. For me."
Christ was this real? John was having trouble breathing, and the recording wasn't even over yet. He felt his heart crashing all over again. Reliving everything again.
"You're insane." Sherlock's voice rang out.
"You're just getting that now? Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't"
He froze. No.
"John."
"Not just John. Everyone.."
John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Oh god.
"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested, you can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless-"
"Unless I Kill myself and complete your story."
"You gotta admit, it's sexier."
"And I die in disgrace." Sherlock said sadly.
"Of course. That's the point of this."
John curled into himself and began to sob. Sherlock was dead because of sentiment. He had said over and over that it was a weakness. That caring wasn't an advantage. And now he had the proof. Sherlock had let John in and died because of it. Because he cared what happened to the three of them. He traded his own life for the insured safety of theirs.
And John was throwing it away because he couldn't cope. He knew he couldn't stop grieving, he couldn't wither away and let Mycroft take him, or let Sherlock's sacrifice be in vain.
A dark thought suddenly crossed his mind. A way to cope so that no one would know. A way he could feel, and still grieve. He knew it was stupid and irrational, but this was better. Easier.
He walked into the kitchen and began to dig through the drawers. Just looking. He had seen it before. He knew it was there. It wasn't until the third drawer that he had found what he had been looking for.
A box cutter.
It was small and silver. About three inches long, less than an inch in width. It was perfect. He pushed up the blade to find it perfect and gleaming. He had only used it a few times around the house. Now he found a real purpose for it.
He knew he was insane. He was a doctor. He knew the dangers of cutting. Had seen how addictive it could be to the people that came in with the obvious signs, but he needed this. Desperately. What was scary is that he didn't even know why this would work, or if it would. He could only hope.
He turned his wrist facing up. He could do this without hurting himself too much, but he didn't want to take any chances with the veins in his wrist so predominate. He placed the blade along the outside of his wrist and made a slow deliberate cut. He watched as his skin sliced easily under the sharp blade and watched as the blood came up from the thin line. He hissed at the sharp pain, but he watched the blood. Fascinated by it.
He could feel. Feel the sharp pain. Feel something else course through his body. Relief. It was like a tight spring uncoiled in his body. For once he was relaxed and distracted. He wasn't thinking about Sherlock. Wasn't replaying the fall in his head. He was focused on the small amount of pain, and the blood that had rushed up to meet him.
As twisted and as wrong as he knew it was, he breathed a sigh of relief. This could help. This he could keep hidden with his jumpers and coats. With this he could let everyone think that he was moving on and allow him to cope in his own way. Alone.
The blood stopped on the small cut as suddenly as it started and John frowned at it. He placed the blade below the cut and made another perfect line under it. The relief again was instant as he watched the blood rise up, and the sharp pain come through.
It felt so wrong. It felt so right.
...
John came up with a routine. After a few weeks he had it down to a science. His box cutter laid protectively under his pillow every night. Always within reach. He would wake up from his nightmares, go into the bathroom and cut a few perfect straight lines. He always choose the bathroom. He knew Mycroft probably had surveillance in the flat. He always did. But he never intruded enough to put devices in the bathroom. So it became John's safe place.
Every morning when he woke up dreaming of blood on the pavement, of the lifeless eyes, he would go to the bathroom and shut the door, cutting until his relief came.
The sad part was that mornings weren't enough anymore. He found himself cutting before bed too. The relief and pain that he felt every time he cut was perfect. It also wasn't enough to feel that relief just once a day. He needed it more. Especially on bad days, when all he could see was Sherlock and his long coat on every corner, hidden in the shadows. He needed more on those days, and he was more than willing to give himself more.
Another problem came when he started running out of room on his wrist. The skin would become rough and raw, which made it harder to cut. So he adapted and started making cuts to his ankles. He actually found that he liked cutting there. His rough socks would rub against it, sending a stinging pain through his body and reminded him all day of the perfect cuts that were there. He could feel just a bit of relief every time it happened.
No one noticed a thing. He kept them covered constantly. In the first weeks he was terrified someone would find out, so he made the effort to make it look like he was moving on. He made sure to visit Mrs. Hudson for tea, and eat a bit of any food she happened to cook for him. He also took out a day every few weeks to go to the pub with Greg. He never drank a lot. The last thing he wanted to to reveal his secret because he had gotten too drunk, so he drank a glass or two while they talked and then always made it back home in time to cut himself a few times before bed.
To everyone on the outside it seemed like John was moving on just fine. He did his shopping once a week. Went back to work as much as he could to fill his time and made time for some of his old friends.
He never dated though. He couldn't. Those nights were the hardest. The nights that he would remember the little looks from Sherlock. The small touches that grew more affectionate as time when by. He began to hate himself for never acting on it. Hated himself for thinking about what could have been, because there could have been so much. A full exciting life for the two of them, now unfulfilled because Sherlock was dead. He tried not to let himself think too much on it because if he did, he would let himself bleed so much more, needing the relief from the thoughts of what could have been. On those nights he would just sob and let the blood run down his wrists.
...
John began to realize that after a few more months, his coping mechanism was turning on him. The first time he realized this was the morning he woke up and couldn't find his box cutter.
It was complete and utter panic.
He had always kept it under his pillow. Always. But he had woken up to find that it wasn't there. He tore up his room looking for it. Pillows, sheets, and clothes covered the floor in a complete mess. He couldn't find it.
He began tearing up the living room.
The bathroom.
The kitchen.
Sherlock's room.
He couldn't find it. The flat was a disaster.
He sat on the floor and curled himself into a ball as he faced a full on panic attack. He tried to breathe. Tried to calm himself down. He couldn't. His thoughts started flooding him.
Sherlock falling.
Sherlock dead.
Box cutter gone.
Sherlock not coming back.
Sherlock dying for John.
He got up and ran into his room, throwing on clothes and rushing to the store.
He bought six more box cutters that day. The perfect small ones that he loved. He kept one on him at all times. One in his bedroom. One in the kitchen drawer. One in the bathroom. One in Sherlock's room. And one under the skull. All perfectly hidden. He would make sure he was never without one again.
...
John woke up shaking, tears running down his face. It was one of the worst nightmares he'd had in a few weeks. It was always the same nightmare when it came. Always Sherlock falling. John not reaching him in time. He was never in time to save him. He rushed out of the room and into the bathroom, throwing up what little he actually had in his stomach.
He still didn't eat very much. When he often looked into the mirror he was only a shadow of the man that he used to be. He wondered how no one noticed, or if they just didn't bother to say anything.
It had been two years, but he looked like he had aged 10. He'd lost so much weight he looked thin and frail. His hair was nearly all gray, his face had wrinkled lines of worry and agony permanently plastered on.
What people didn't see were the scars. The perfect lines that covered his arms and ankles. Years of abuse with nearly no relief now, but he couldn't stop. Not anymore.
He knew Sherlock had died for him, but he just couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't live with the nightmares and constant memories. The cutting didn't do anything for him anymore. It was just more pain added on to pain. This wasn't living, but he didn't know how to live anymore.
He sat on the edge of the bathtub, facing into the shower, just sobbing. He couldn't just exist anymore. He could end his life now and it would be better. He could be with Sherlock. Be with the person he realized over the last few years that he loved. It was strange.. finding out that you loved someone only after they were dead and gone.
He pulled his box cutter out.
He made his decision. He couldn't do this anymore. Wouldn't do this anymore.
He made small cuts on his wrists first. Watching for one last time in fascination as the blood ran down his arm. He had cut deeper. Wanting to see more.. This was his last time after all. He could feel the tears streaming down his face as he continued..
Two cuts.
Three cuts.
Four cuts.
Five.
There was blood everywhere. He felt sorry for leaving a mess, but he wanted to watch.. wanted to feel before he couldn't feel anything anymore.
His arms were covered in blood when he decided to do his final cuts. The deepest. Across his veins. Leaving no room for error.
He placed the blade onto his wrist, when a long pale hand covered his own.
He stared at it.
He knew those hands, but it wasn't possible. He began to sob harder.
"John?"
The voice was deep and scared. He'd never heard that voice shake before.
He shut his eyes tight.
"No." He said sobbing. This wasn't possible. It had been years.. but he would know that voice anywhere.
"John.. please give that to me.." The voice was still shaking, but softer, calming.
He began to shake. He refused to turn around. Refused to let go of his blade. Refused to open his eyes.
"I-I can't.." He stuttered through his sobs. "I need to be with Sherlock.." he whispered. "I can't.."
The hand that laid on his stiffened and froze, clearly not expecting that answer. He felt the man drop to his knees behind John and gently wrapped his arms around his waist and the man leaned his forehead on to the back of John's neck.
"I'm so sorry.." the deep voice said, barely above a whisper. "I didn't know.. I'm sorry John.."
John froze. The blade still rested gently on his wrist, ready to cut, to end everything, and now he was just confused.
The pale hands moved gently over his arms, feeling the old scars that layered his skin. He heard a sharp intake of breath. "John..." the voice was shocked and in pain. He was having trouble denying who it was now.
"S-Sherlock?" he hadn't said the name in so long. It hurt to say it.
"Yes John, I'm here.. I promise I'm here for good."
No. It wasn't real. Sherlock was dead and he wasn't coming back. John saw him fall. He saw the blood that covered his face and surrounded his head. He had found no pulse in the wrist he had pulled desperately from the ground. He knew he must be losing a lot of blood for him to think that Sherlock was here. He wondered if he even needed to make the last cut on his wrist.
"You're not real.. But I'll see you soon.." He whispered as he dragged the blade deeply and quickly one last time across his wrist. He didn't hear the yell that followed.
...
John felt as if he was floating underwater, but couldn't see. He was swimming endlessly with no way to the top, no way to gasp for air. Panic coursed through him when he suddenly gasped and breathed in air, opening his eyes to white walls around him.
No.
He wasn't dead.
He could see the walls of the crisp hospital. He could feel the stiff sheets and the monitors hooked up all around him. He wanted to sob. How had he failed in this one thing? Now everyone would know, no one would leave him alone now. They wouldn't understand. No one would.
"John?"
He froze at the voice. This wasn't possible! He couldn't live if he was just going to keep hallucinating that Sherlock was with him. It was hard enough without him, but to have his imagination cough up some carbon copy of the man he loved was infuriating and insulting.
"John, please look at me." The voice said with a small sob.
He shut his eyes tight. Why couldn't everything just go away.
"You're not real. I'm not going to torture myself anymore than I already have." he said sternly.
"John I am not a figment of your imagination." The voice whispered.
He gave up. He turned to look and see what his imagination would make of the man he loved.
He was shocked. This Sherlock was different and like nothing he had ever seen before. His hair was long. Longer than any Sherlock would have ever allowed it to be. He was even thinner than John could have imagined. He was sure that under the shirt he would be able to see the man's ribs. He wore a tshirt, tattered jeans, and a jacket that was too big for him. His cheekbones were hallow. His eyes were still the same color but dull, almost lifeless. This wouldn't ever be something that John could imagine of his Sherlock. Where was the coat? The scarf? The perfect tailored suit? That's what John would have imagined. That's what he always saw in his head and in his nightmares... not this, never this.
"Sherlock?" He said with a sob rising to his throat.
Sherlock simply nodded in acknowledgement as a silent tear slid down his face.
John looked down. He was angry. Furious. Sherlock had left him. He had been alive the entire time. Leaving John to suffer, with his thoughts, with his cutting. He needed his box cutter. He looked down to see both of his wrist tightly bandaged and growled in frustration. He could feel the panic rising. He didn't have a razor with him. They wouldn't have allowed them here. Didn't they understand how much he needed it? How much he needed it right now?
He heard his sobs before he felt the tears that came down his face and suddenly Sherlock was there, arms wrapped around him.
"Shhh.." Sherlock said gently. "I'm sorry.. I'm so sorry.."
"You left." John said detached. "You made me watch you jump. You made me think you were dead. I saw you. You were dead. I.. I saw.." John couldn't even say anymore. He was too hurt. Too heartbroken.
"I did it to protect you. Moriarty had a sniper on you, even after I jump, even after Moriarty was dead.. If they had found out that I was alive they would have killed you.. and that was not an option." He said sternly, but he softened. "I had to kill them all. I had to dismantle Moriarty's entire web in order to ensure that you lived."
John took a deep breath. He knew Sherlock was telling the truth. He understood why. He just hated that he had been gone for so long. Years without Sherlock. Years without anyone. Just his razor. That's all he had. That's all he knew anymore.
He felt Sherlock shift in the bed to face him. He wrapped his hands on the side of his face and pulled John in for a kiss. He melted. There wasn't anything anymore. Just the two of them.
"I'm sorry.." he said as he pulled away. "I came back as soon as I was able to.. It wasn't easy.. I was almost too late." he said as a sudden tear slid down his face. "John.. you were going to kill yourself.. If I hadn't been there, If I had been just an hour late, you would have been gone and it would have been my fault. I'm so sorry." He buried his face into John's neck, breathing him in.
"I just couldn't cope.." John said sadly. He felt so bad. So ashamed. He had tried so hard to hide it from everyone that he wasn't coping.
"You don't have to anymore.. I will help you."
"Promise?" John asked softly.
"I promise."
John nodded. Sherlock was going to help him. He was back, and he wouldn't ever leave again.
He smiled. A real smile. The first one since Sherlock had fallen. And for the first time, smiling felt right. He held on to Sherlock and he leaned in for another kiss and planned on never letting go.