Three days. Three days it had been. It felt like a year. Multiple, even. It felt… off. Everything felt off. He could still remember the touch, his voice, his face… But he, he of all people, knew all too well, someday, even that would fade. All he would have left were pictures, most of them made by the press—the same press he so loathed. This was their fault. He brought his shaking fingers to his face, pushing his palms against his forehead. No. If it was anyone's fault, it was his.
He once had been so used to losing people. It once had been almost like the most ordinary thing there was. It happened daily, therefore making it feel… normal. That didn't mean the lives lost were worth nothing, though after a while you learned to distance yourself from it. Of course he still cared. Of course it was hard when the people you'd gotten to know so well lost their lives. But this… it hurt more than John could handle. People die. Some live. People dying… it's a part of life, so why get so upset now?
"He was my friend." The words came seeping out of his mouth, like water, or more like mud, dripping down onto his knees, onto the floor. "He is my friend."
His eyes closed and all that clogged his mind was the light that pierced through his eyelids. An orange glow. There was no more room for thoughts in John's mind. There was nothing there, just pain, and he didn't want to let it in, even if it knocked on his door until he managed to fall asleep. He didn't want it. He didn't bloody need it. John's eyes flow open at a loud noise. He turned around, his hands dropping back onto his lap, to see the walking cane that had leaned against his chair before had dropped to the floor. Even that stupid thing had memories to it. Good ones, bad ones… He didn't know.
"John." A sudden realization. A voice. Shivers running down his spine.
"What's the matter with you? We have to get going. Cardiff, remember?"
"Wh—" Oh. Yes. "Sorry, I was…" Remembering. "…Thinking."
"Glad to hear that part is still in function. Let's go! A murder, John. A bloody murder, and that's not just a figure of speech this time."
He said nothing. No witty remark. Nothing. Admittedly; he was a mess. Sherlock's words made him feel empty again. As empty as he had been during those days. Sherlock didn't realize, though, and even if he did, would he care? Why would he feel empty, though? Those days were over. They were supposed to be over. But something still ached, and that was probably being treated like some kid who couldn't handle the truth.
"I—" He swallowed his words. So that's what it was like now. Being unable to speak his mind, choking on his own words… He felt sick. This wasn't him. "I'm coming. I'm…. I'm coming." He probably was like a child who couldn't handle the truth. He knew he couldn't handle the truth, but he wanted to know what really happened, and above all, he wanted to be Sherlock's friend, even if he was still angry at him for being left in the dark. Of course, he could always ask Molly Hooper, but he didn't want to. He needed to hear it from Sherlock himself.
John got up, his eyes suddenly catching the sigh of the walking cane. He pressed his hands against his face, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He felt… odd. No, not him, this entire situation felt odd, and somehow, that walking cane felt odd. He hadn't needed that bloody thing in a while, so why was it there?
"Are you… okay?" Sherlock's voice almost sounded worried—almost. John had often found himself wondering if Sherlock was even able to experience such an emotion. He knew he could, though. He knew Sherlock wasn't as inhumane as he liked to make himself appear.
"I'm—I'm fine. Let's get going, the cab's waiting, right?" John replied, his gaze directed at the cane.
"Good. Can't go without my favourite blogger after all."
John followed Sherlock out of the apartment, grabbing his coat. Looking at Sherlock's back still felt somewhat eerie sometimes, and right now, that was just how it felt. He'd seen him wearing that exact coat, bleeding out on the pavement. His hair sullied by the red liquid, and even when he'd passed – or seemed to have passed – the look on Sherlock's face pained John. It had looked as if Sherlock had been going through excruciating pain in his final moments. He'd sounded like that, too, when he rung John up. Even now, Sherlock's voice arose a feeling akin to pain within John.
"How did you do it?" The words just slipped out. Again. "Just tell me. Why won't you—" Yeah, he obviously still was the mess he'd been ever since that day. "Why won't you just tell—"
"I told you, John. It's not important."
For a second there, John thought he saw his friend hurting in that same way he'd been hurting. Not important… sure. If that's what Sherlock himself wanted to believe.
'I'm hurting too, Sherlock. It's alright to hurt.'
He couldn't say it. Why couldn't he say it?
"Why do you keep asking? Such an insignificant matter. I'm alive and well, and I'm here now, so stop it."
Pain. That was pain in his voice. A pain that John knew all too well. Though John was unable to place it, to know where that pain came from… he understood. He understood it more than anything.
'You're not alone in this.'
'Let me help you.'
'Please, Sherlock.'
'I can't stand this.'
Instead of saying all of these things, John turned his face away and stepped into the cab, peering through the cab window immediately after. He wasn't even really looking at anything, just staring. Neither of them said anything for most of the ride, until John decided that what he was feeling had to come out somehow, and like his therapist had once said, it's better to say it now than let the bomb burst later. It might come out in a different form, after all. And though he'd love to give Sherlock a good old punch in the face, he'd best refrain from doing that.
"You've told me nothing. Nothing. How can you tell me nothing? I—I wasn't exactly happy when I thought you were dead, you know. You and I… you said we were friends. You said it yourself, back in Dartmoor. So why aren't…"
A light chuckle escaped Sherlock's lips. "Please," Sherlock said, his voice stern as always, his eyes peering right into John's. Not a trace of emotion in there… as expected.
"Excuse me, I'll be getting out here," John said, tapping on the window separating the driver from the passengers.
"We're not in Cardiff yet, mate. 'sides, there's nothing 'ere. Nothin' but meadow."
"Didn't you hear me? I said I was getting out."
Alright, maybe getting out here wasn't such a good idea. Why'd he have to be the one to leave? Sherlock had been the one who deserved to get kicked out of the cab the most of everyone in it. Backing out now wasn't what he wanted to do either, though. He didn't like being viewed as weak, and especially not by Sherlock. Besides, the cab had already come to a stop.
John didn't intend on paying for this inconvenience so he left his wallet where it was, pushed the door open and stepped out. Just as he was getting acclimated to the cold of… wherever he was—probably somewhere around Reading – he heard a heavy sigh leave the cab.
"John, get back in. We have a case to work on and I need you with me. You know I don't work well with Anderson."
"See if I care," John hissed, refusing to turn around.
"There are lives at stake. You wouldn't want for an innocent person to get hurt because of your incompetence, would you?"
That was it. John turned around, pointing his finger at the man in the long, black coat, almost poking his finger into the man's eye. "There is a line, Sherlock!" he barked, feeling his heartbeat fasten. "…And you've crossed it—You've crossed it so many times already." He was right though. There really were lives at stake here.
"Well, what'll it be? Are you coming or not?" Sherlock's voice sounded so… empty. There was nothing there that even got close to emotion.
John turned the hand that was almost poking Sherlock in the eye into a clenched fist and though the desire to give Sherlock a nice right against his jaw got stronger by the second, he lowered his fist.
"Fine, but I'm not doing this for you."
"I know. Now get in, the meter's running, after all," Sherlock replied, and John could have sworn he saw a grin on his face.
"Look, laddie, what's it gonna be? I've got places to be," came the voice of the cabbie.
"S-Sorry. I'm… I'm sorry. I'm getting back in now."
"Ta."
John got back in and closed the door with a hard slam. He didn't speak for the rest of the ride and nor did Sherlock.