Warnings for self-harm and suicidal tendencies. Do NOT read if this affects you.
You have been warned
John hissed as the blade carved a clean slice through fading tanned flesh.
It felt like fire. Beautiful, all-consuming fire, and for the first time in 3 years, John felt.
John felt something. He felt alive.
Since Sherlock had jumped, John had been numb. He had locked himself away in his small flat in south London, unable to keep up the rent on 221B alone despite Mrs Hudson's kind allowances, and he had faded.
He had faded away from soldier; doctor; blogger; friend of Sherlock Holmes to nothing.
He became nothing; no one; unimportant.
He became a ghost of himself.
Numb.
After the initial period of grief and pain, he felt nothing, and for a while, it was a relief. Relief from the haunting visions, terrifying dreams and the suicidal thoughts. Even his pistol had become long-forgotten.
But now, now he needed to feel.
He needed to feel something; anything.
He wiped the dust from his laptop and loaded up his blog, noting the three-year-old last entry and smiling fondly at the photo of Sherlock; his friend; his best friend.
He became painfully aware of his inability to feel. He had spent so long; so long blocking it all out that he had forgotten how to unlock it again.
He wanted; he needed.
He looked at the blade and then down at his arm, watching the crimson flow slip down along the creases of his elbow and drip onto the table.
It was mesmerising; captivating; beautiful.
And all of a sudden he felt. He felt everything.
Deep; hard; painful; outside; inside; everywhere.
He wanted more. He wanted so much more.