DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock (BBC) :'( nothing here is intended to be copyright infringement. All rights go to the BBC and Moffat etc etc.
A/N : This rating may go up in later chapters, be warned now. Oh and this is not the only chapter before you decide to leave! Please don't go. All reviews welcome good bad or otherwise, though FYI this is my first story. I will try to remedy any mistakes I make and I accept full responsibility for all errors. Much LOVE 3
CONTAINS: Suicidal references.
John Watson looked into the dark brown eyes of his therapist, Lucy Leech, and thought for the third time this session that the woman must have purchased her degree off of eBay, as what she was saying was unbelievably irrelevant to him. John's term in Afghanistan hadn't changed him. Well not that John could see on the brief moments of internal reflection that he indulged in. The only thing that John brought home from his tour of duty was a bullet wound, his Browning, and this damn limp.
He caught sight of his reflection in the window pane and tried to find evidence of this 'changed John' he'd heard so much about.
Dr John Watson saw a mess of dirty blonde hair; his deep blue eyes; straight nose; the light, thin, pink line of his lips; a strong jaw line – dotted with stubble that he's forgotten to shave that morning. And then, just for a moment, John saw the lines around his eyes; the deeper creases on his forehead. But the most disturbing thing of all was that his eyes were dead. They showed no emotion, no enthusiasm, nothing.
"John?"
He whipped his head around to face the anxious psychologist, noting that she had stretched her hand out towards him. She must have realised that she's startled him as her cheeks coloured and she retracted her hand with such speed that John wondered how she had managed to stop it hitting her. With the shock of the sudden retrieval from his reflection still coursing through his veins; John tried to reach for his cane. Only to find that it was already in his hand, gripping it so tightly his knuckles practically glowed through his skin. With an imperceptible shake of the head at himself, John loosened his grasp and awkwardly stood to leave. He couldn't stay in this damn room any longer.
He was very nearly out of the door when a small cough stopped him. John was a hair's breadth away from rolling his eyes at this woman. Damn, she was persistent.
"You never did answer my question Dr Watson."
He turned with an inquisitive and contrite look on his face. John had honestly just tuned the poor woman out. The mental scolding for incredibly bad manners would come later, as he desperately searched for a clue so he could comply.
"Your blog, John, your blog."
The endearing but slightly chastising tone compelled John to answer rather than just roll his eyes at Lucy. He fingered a hole in his most comfortable beige jumper before replying.
"You know nothing exciting happens to me."
oooooooooOooooooooo
John sat bolt upright in bed, the sheets were twisted around him. Listening for what had woken him this time. When he realised that the apartment was silent, he exhaled slowly. Noticing the pain shooting through his knuckles, John glared at the bedside table that he had undoubtedly hit in his sleep.
"Oh, great deduction John."
He sat nursing his hand for a while before recognizing the connotations that came with his words. John squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to remember; not to go back; not to see him go again.
A small whimper escaped his lips.
"Sherlock."
The tiny whisper, barely louder than a summer breeze, was the catalyst. John saw it all. Back at the very beginning in St Bart's where his first words were spoken; their first case; the desolation at the pool; the woman. And finally back at the place where it all began. Watching his coat fly out behind him. Except this time it wasn't when they were running after a murderer. It wasn't when they chasing cabs through London. It wasn't when he was stood outside 221B impatiently waiting for John to drink the remnants of his tea. It was when he...
"NO!"
John's eyes were wrenched open as he refused to let that train of thought reach its conclusion. He put his head in his hands only to take them abruptly away when he felt that his cheeks were streaked with tears. He shook himself, trying to rid himself of the depression that he could feel creeping up on him. He disentangled himself from his sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Finding more stability with his feet planted firmly on the floor, John wiped his cheeks with the palm of his hand and stared around the room.
John had taken to sleeping in Sherlock's bed, trying to feel that little bit closer to him. He hadn't touched any of the experiments – although Mrs Hudson did get rid of the ones that started to rot. Apart from that, it was exactly how He had left it. The sheets had long stopped smelling like Sherlock but John couldn't force himself to return to his own room.
With a sigh, John forced himself up off the mattress; reaching for his cane, John slowly made his way to the kitchen. He was well overdue for his morning cup of tea.
oooooooooOooooooooo
John never sat on the sofa anymore. It held too many memories of Him. Instead he sat himself down stiffly into the far less comfortable armchair, which John thought could have vomit stains and it would still improve its appearance. The horrid brown pattern hid the piercing springs which dug into him, keeping his mind in the here and now, for which John was forever grateful. He brought his tea to his lips, sipping the scalding liquid and trying to ignore the pain slicing through his shoulder. Harry had made sure that Mycroft disposed of all of his pain medication when she had stumbled across a lethal collection in the cutlery drawer. In hindsight, that probably wasn't the best place to stash them. Just because John didn't use the kitchen for anything but tea, it didn't mean that others wouldn't.
Sherlock could have thought of a better place.
John slammed the mug on to the hardwood of the coffee table, smashing the blue china and barely wincing when the hot tea splashed all over his hand.
As he wiped the scalding liquid off with the sleeve of his jumper he noticed a tremor in his hand. It wasn't from the cold – he insisted that Mrs Hudson keep the thermostat at 15 degrees, the heat reminded him too much of coming back to the flat after running around freezing London – he'd become used to the chill. His therapist thinks that he is still suffering PTSD from Afghanistan. John hadn't disclosed Sherlock's death yet. He couldn't talk about it. Not to anyone.
John stands slowly and limps to the wall, the one littered with bullet holes. He traces the pattern of the revolting wallpaper before outlining the yellow smiley face. His fingers dipping in and out of the puncture wounds, causing more plaster to fall out on to the floor. He smiles sadly as he recalls His reasoning behind destroying their property. John could imagine what would happen if He walked in right now...
"John, what are you doing?"
"Sherlock?"
"I'm glad to see that your deducing skills have improved John."
"Don't be sarcastic Sherlock! Where..."
"Have I been? Long story..."
"Why?"
"Your voice is lower John, your eyes are moist, arms crossed in an attempt to protect yourself, what from I'm not sure. Are you upset with me John?" He would have his hands pushed together under his chin as he tried to deduce him. Of course, Sherlock had never been any good with emotions.
"OF COURSE I'M BLOODY UPSET!"
"Ah, so I was right."
John was startled out of the world; where Sherlock wasn't dead, where Sherlock was sat on the couch, where there was Sherlock; by a sharp knock on the open door.
"John?"
A/N: Please, please, please review, I need to know if you like it, hate it or something is really annoying you that you want fixed. I will try to update a.s.a.p. 3