John Watson sat on the edge of his bed, astounded and depressed at how cyclical life really was. He was reminded of another bed, in what felt like another life, staring silently at another collection of floorboards.
The gun, however, was the same. It was the the gun that belonged in that other flat, in that other life. It was the gun that he carried from that life to this; his life above the grey expanse of Baker Street. His life above the cafes, above Mrs. Hudson, above the world. His life with Sherlock Holmes.
How inexplicable it is that I, a man that craves laughter and light and connections... A man that craves love... Can be so inextricably entrenched in the life of a man like Sherlock Holmes?
The gun from the other flat, in the other life, lay directly before him on his modest desk. The one he had never used, because this room felt nothing like the spaces beyond the door. That space was the parchment that soaked up the essence of Sherlock like ink. That space where John felt most inspired, and most at home.
The hours of blogging his and Sherlock's exploits... ignoring the heads in the icebox, and the discordant shrieks of Sherlock's violin whenever Mycroft dropped in to trick his brother into helping with a case... Everything was Sherlock Holmes. Nothing was John Watson.
John Watson, he believed, did not exist. His eyes closed, and memories washed his inner voice away in a wave of Sherlock Holmes.
My thoughts are not even my own... I can't remember the name of the woman I had dinner with last night, but all the minutia of the cases we've worked are clear and sharp...
Sharp. That word brought a flicker of light into the darkness, floating away from the gun on the desk; softly and fleeting as firefly light, towards the desk drawer. The knife. He'd forgotten.
That girl at university... her legs covered in scars. She told me that they helped... Something about...
John stood slowly, and crossed the small space between bed and desk. The gun never scared him. It was familiar and final, and loud and gruesome end for a man that had never been. But his hand trembled as he opened the drawer, hesitating before picking up the knife.
A small piece of metal lay in a bed of calloused flesh, as a defeated man looked at it's silvery glint in the moonlight.
John pressed the knife against his forearm, not quite hard enough to draw blood. That long ago girl had told him that with every drop she spilled from her veins, more pain was released from her body. She said that it brought clarity, and control.
"If I didn't carve myself up, I'd put a bullet through my head" she'd laughed, drunk on cheap wine and draped carelessly across his bed. The sickly light coming in from the streetlamps had illuminated her scars. He'd been just repulsed enough to never call her again.
"I suspect you've done yourself in by now" John said aloud; surprising himself with the sound. He started, and the movement shifted the blade pressed to his arm. It was a good blade, and the slight movement had opened his skin in a razor thin line. Blood began to well up slowly, and the man made of Nothing fixed his gaze completely on the crimson line. In a daze, he moved the blade up his arm a few millimeters, and brought it down in a quick slash... just as his door flew open.
"John! Get your coat! We have a case – one which Lestrade feels will require your expertise more than usual. John! What are you-" Sherlock's voice dropped to nearly a whisper.
"John... What have you done"? John sat without speaking, watching the flow of blood run from the gash in his forearm to drip, faster and faster, to join with the growing pool on the floor. Sherlock knelt down in front John, his knee slipping in the blood. John watched dumbly as the man that was his whole self put a single fingertip to the wound. Sherlock rubbed the blood between his thumb and finger slowly, staining his pale fingers with John's blood. The scent of copper finally reached John's consciousness, although it had long since filled his room.
Sherlock touched his bloodied fingers to his lips, and captured John's gaze. The unusual action partially caught John's attention, and he allowed his eyes to focus on his flatmate.
"It won't stop whatever nonsense is going on in your head, John."
John hung his head, and said in a voice so quiet it was hardly a whisper "I'm trying to bleed you out of me, Sherlock. When I'm done, there will be nothing left."
Sherlock's expression did not change, but his back straightened, and as he rose his arms encircled John, his head resting on John's shoulder. The out of place sensation of dampness against John's neck woke him from the remnants of his trance. His brow furrowed in confusion, focused on the moisture soaking through his collar and pressing warmly against his skin. As Sherlock pulled away, John looked without comprehension at the slight glisten in his flat-mate's eyes. When it finally dawned on John that Sherlock could, in theory, be crying, he shook his head. Sherlock could turn a loaded gun on the furniture, or impersonate a government official, but Sherlock did not cry.
"Moron!" he yelled directly into John's face, causing him to flinch backwards, flicking blood across Sherlock's pale cheek in the process.
"Blood is no more and no less a fluid made up of plasma and cells! It is a conduit for oxygen! Without it, you still won't be rid of my influences, you'll merely be deceased! An organism slowly decaying in a sad little flat on Baker Street, your body bloating up from bacteria over a period of days, eventually to split open like an overripe cantaloupe, and all because Doctor John Watson sees too much of Sherlock Holmes in himself. Meanwhile, I would assume you were out wasting time with a woman, ignoring me completely out of spite, and assume the noxious odor was coming from the box of human intestines I've left beneath the sink." he paused for breath. John sat completely astounded, the blood on his arm congealing and already flaking where Sherlock had smudged it.
"The truth is, John..." his voice cracked a little then, and he looked away, "The truth is, when I look around, I see you. Every object slightly out of place is you; every creaking floorboard is your nagging. You have come in and undone me, John." He set his jaw and stood up.
John Watson smiled as he rose from his bed. Sherlock had already turned and stepped purposefully across the threshold, throwing John's coat back towards the bed from where it hung behind the door.
"Enough of your nonsense, we have a case! A fascinating murder-suicide involving a Russian Dwarf and a Scandinavian Accountant who – Do shut up, Mrs. Hudson! The intestines are part of a very important study. You really are a terrible housekeeper; they've been there a fortnight already!"
John quickly cleaned his wounds, and tied a clean washrag around his arm. He'd stitch himself up in the morning. Right now, he and Sherlock had a case. As much as John Watson had vanished, so too had Sherlock Holmes.