A/N: Okay, so the last time I tried my hand at writing fanfiction, I was in the eighth grade. Hopefully I've improved since then! :D I don't know how comfortable I am writing smut, so while this is a M fic, it might end up with light lemons rather than graphic sex. This is clearly listed as Sherlock/John, this is a MxM fic. This is a post-Reichenbach fic. So, John is sad, obviously. He's a wee bit suicidal, and he self-harms. So, if any of these things are triggers for you, do not read. This is NOT brit-picked, or beta'd. Any and all mistakes are mine. Okay, now onto the tedious disclaimer!

Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with BBC, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss. I have no control over the BBC's Sherlock. If I did, Johnlock would be canon. I make no money off of this, it's just for kicks.

xXxxXx

Shit, not again. Please, not again!

I hear him say, "This phone call, it's my note."

No. NO. Not again god damn it!

He's falling. FUCK! He's falling!

SMACK!

I'm awake now, and I'm sobbing. Through my bleary haze, I wonder what it was that woke me up. I know how that dream ends, I've seen it so many times. Every night that I actually manage to sleep, I have that dream. It ends with- oh god. It hurts to even think about. It ends in the worst way. I see myself, as I was that day at St. Bart's. I can't do anything to stop the words that come out of my mouth, and God knows I try to stop them. To change them.

"She's dying, you MACHINE!"

The look on his face. Jesus, if ever I've felt like a dick, it's when I see those eyes. Every night I see them. At my words, his face stays the same, but his eyes, they change. It looks like I've broken him. The shift is small, I didn't notice it at the time. God, if I had, maybe he wouldn't have jumped. Maybe we'd have had more time. Maybe I could've done something, instead of just STANDING there. Why didn't I do something? Anything?

Now I'm stuck. I'm in a rut, and I see no way out. Well, no way except one.

The thought has crossed my mind. Of course it has. It'd be so easy. There are so many ways, I could make it as painful or pain-free as I wished. I'm a doctor for Christ's sake.

The one thing standing in my way? Sherlock. God, even thinking his name hurts. I know him- knew him. He'd be so furious with me. He'd call me weak. He'd call me stupid, which wouldn't be new, but he'd mean it.

It would hurt, knowing that I disappointed him. I try- tried- so hard to please him. To get him to look at me and smile that John-you-are-my-conductor-of-light smile. I can't kill myself. I can't be a disappointment.

I deserve this pain. This never ending dullness.

I wake up, go to work, come home, eat chips, and then I go to bed.

My life is normal. My life is boring. THIS is my hell. I didn't save Sherlock, and now I must pay for it. I must be punished.

xXxxXx

I make my way to the bathroom, to see that the rubbish bin has been knocked over. I'm not sure how, but I'm too tired to think about it more. I don't look in the mirror, because I know what I will see.

New wrinkles, more grey hair, dark circles under my eyes, and a three day beard. God, I hate myself.

I turn on the shower, and wait for it to heat up. I reach into the top drawer on my side of the sink. I haven't opened Sher- his drawers. I can't.

His stuff is in there, I know it has to be. His aftershave, god I always loved how it smelled. His razors, not the electric kind like I use, are probably in there. Along with the hair product I found one time.

I knew those curls couldn't be natural. I've had girlfriends with curly hair, I know it isn't just naturally perfect. He denied it. Until I confronted him, jar of product in hand. He didn't blush, hell, I don't know if he can blush. But, his jaw tightened just a bit.

I almost didn't notice it. I just happened to be looking in the general vicinity of his mouth. I was not looking at his lips. Nope, not at all.

But, I did notice the tightening. So, even as he scoffed, I knew he was embarrassed.

The memory brings a sad smile to my face.

God, I miss him.

xXxxXx

I step into the shower and reach for the rubbing alcohol and my razor blades. I deserve to be punished. I deserve pain. As I start to carve into my thigh, I think of how this started, the first week after the fall. Jesus, I was so distraught. I had to get it out. To have release. The chemicals the brain releases when I cut make things more bearable. I feel better, just for a bit.

It's easy to hide, really. Too easy. If he were here, he'd know. I see a hundred people a day, when you count the people on the Tube, and my patients. No one notices. Why would they?

I'm just a funny little doctor. They look at me, and they see the system. They see someone who is always there when they need me, and then disappears once I have fixed them up.

No one ever thinks about me. Well, Mrs. Hudson does, I suppose. She has been dealing with her own grief, though. We share watery smiles, and solemn nods. I haven't seen Lestrade since the day of the fall.

He tried to talk to me. I punched him. That was five months ago.

I put up my blade, and watch as blood mixes with the warm water and swirls down the drain.

When will this end?

xXxxXx

So? How is it? Should I go on? I know it is a bit sad right now, but it will get better! I promise! Let me know with reviews or alerts, please? I just want to know someone wants to read it.