Four years this time. Sherlock's been gone four years. Mary divorced John a year and a half ago because he was absolutely in ruin over it. John doesn't know whether Sherlock disappearing was planned again or if he were actually gone this time. He didn't know. And it was killing him.
He had moved back into 221B, leaving Mary and their child the house. Mrs. Hudson had been more than happy to have someone there again. She can hear him moving around sometimes. Whether to go to the loo or to the kitchen, just hearing him move was enough for her.
One quiet autumn day, John decided to get cleaned up and take a walk. He shaved his face and washed his hair, now to his neck and shaggy. He didn't bother with cutting it this time. It wasn't a priority. He pulled on some trousers and a jumper over a collared shirt. He looked more like himself than he had in a long while. He tried to smile at his reflection but still couldn't muster up the strength. He had dark shadows under his blue-gray eyes and a few more wrinkles around his mouth and eyes than he seemed to remember.
He walked out and down to the ground floor and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. He told her he was going for a walk. She smiled and gave him a hug and invited to tea when he got back. He gladly accepted and went on his way. He left the door unlocked because he had no idea where his keys had gone in the many months since he had last used them and he didn't want to bother Mrs. Hudson again.
He ambled down the street, breathing in the warm air. It had been a while since he had last seen the outside of Baker Street. He continued walking until he came to the fish shop a few blocks from 221B. He and Sherlock came here a lot because the man who owns it was helped by Sherlock. He had helped him put up some shelves.
Walking in, the shop owner recognized him and greeted him warmly. He gave John a pitying look upon noticing the sadness still deeply rooted in his eyes. John sat down at a window seat and sipped his tea. He took a bite of a chip but wasn't that hungry. He just stared out the window at the traffic going by. He wondered if Sherlock was still alive this time but he was starting to doubt it. He didn't believe that Sherlock would do that to him again. Not after that last time. He must really be dead.
John got up and bid ado to the shopkeeper and started back towards 221B, walking slowly. I was coming upon dusk but he didn't mind being out in the dark. A man brushed past him, hurrying briskly in the direction John was headed. John shrugged it off and kept walking at his slowed pace. He came to an old bookstore he and Sherlock used to frequent before it closed up. He stopped and peered in. It looked desolate and empty, cardboard boxes and old furniture gathering dust. John shook his head and walked away. No use in dawdling.
Coming back to 221B, he walked in and up to Mrs. Hudson's door. Knocking twice, he turned the knob and let himself in. Mrs. Hudson was placing the biscuits on her small table in the kitchen when he walked in. They greeted each other and had a pleasant tea time, talking about everything except Sherlock. John was happy to be in her company and was smiling honestly for the first time in four years.
A few hours later, John said his goodbyes and went up to his flat. The door was cracked open a sliver. At first he was confused. He was sure he had pulled it tightly shut, considering he had to pull twice for it to latch. Hearing a scuffle on the other side, John stepped back, contemplating what he was to do. He knew there was a cricket bat on the inside of the door to the right, but he didn't know where in the room the intruder was. He would have to be quick.
Opening the door a little further he saw a man with short, dark brown hair standing towards the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. John grabbed the cricket bat and charged the man, letting out a yell as he did. The man spun and threw his hands up, shielding his face. John held the cricket bat threateningly as he commanded the man to identify himself.
"John…"
John's heart skipped a beat at hearing the man's voice. It was one that was etched in his mind. One that he hadn't heard in years.
"Sh-Sher-lock?"
John dropped the bat and fell back onto his bottom. Sherlock took a step towards his friend but John skittered back, shock and disbelief on his face. Many emotions were running through John's head but the most prevalent was betrayal. He had been played the fool for a second time by the same man. He took a breath and cleared his throat.
"Sherlock Holmes," he started, face hot and eyes red with rage, "you absolutely disgust me."
Sherlock was taken aback by the ferocity in John's tone. He took a step back and bumped into the mantelpiece, knocking a large, framed photograph of the two of them at John's wedding to the ground. The glass in the frame shattered all over the carpet. John rose to his feet and stood tall. He stepped over the abandoned cricket bat and stood chest to chest with the man he once knew.
"How could you?" John asked, voice quaking with anger. "How could you even do this to me again?"
Sherlock still had that cold stare of a genius. John was so close to him and, after not seeing him for four years, it took all of Sherlock's strength not to grab him and hold him for the rest of their lives. He knew John was in pain and that he had been missed and grieved. But he needed to explain.
"John, listen to me," Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders and steered him towards John's chair. John shrugged him off and remained standing.
John could see nearly-faded bruises on Sherlock's face. There was faint swelling around his left eye and a scar ran from his hairline to his chin on the right. Other than that, he looked as dapper as ever. His hair was shorter than he had usually kept it but it was clean and fixed up.
John fixed Sherlock with a blank stare. Starting to pace, he tried to process the initial shock of seeing a ghost of his past come back so suddenly after so long. He wanted desperately to believe Sherlock, but this was ridiculous. How many times could one man come back from the grave?
"No."
Sherlock looked at his friend, confused. "John, I know you are hurting, and I KNOW that I am the one that is causing that pain, but you have to lis-"
Suddenly, John punched Sherlock square in the jaw. Sherlock fell and his right hand landed in the broken glass. John put his foot on Sherlock's injured hand, grinding it in the glass more. Sherlock cried out.
"Do you feel that?!" John yelled down at his former friend. "That pain? That awful, grating pain? I hope to God you do."
Sherlock stared at John through the haze of torturous agony. "John please let me expla- AHUHHHHHAAAHHGGHHH!"
"You don't speak," John whispered in a quiet fury. "For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes will be silent."
With tears in his eyes, Sherlock nodded.
Looking down on Sherlock, John felt his heart start to thud harder and harder against his ribcage. His breath quickened and his vision started to go red. He started pressing harder on Sherlock's hand, causing the detective to writhe in misery. Blood was soaking the rug where Sherlock's hand and wrist were lacerated. Sherlock was starting to see white points on his vision. He was going to pass out soon.
John was just standing there, placing even pressure on Sherlock's hand now, not moving. Vision failing him, Sherlock couldn't see John's face. He struggled to adjust his eyes but the pain was too much. He just stayed still, gasping through the waves of pain coming from his hand. John would shift his weight and a new round of agony ensued. John started to laugh every time Sherlock grunted or groaned. A little chuckle every now and again.
This went on for a little while longer. Sherlock stopped making any noise, wouldn't even gasp anymore. John would just stare at him for minutes on end.
Then, his hand was free. Sherlock gasped as he pulled his hand off the glass, cradling it against his chest. There were jagged shards still protruding from the gashes in his palm. He felt a drop of water hit his hand as John slumped to his knees beside him. By the way that his shoulders were heaving, he was crying.
"Why, Sherlock?" John whimpered. "Why did you go?"
Sherlock stared at John with sadness and regret. He knew he had hurt his friend severely this time.
As Sherlock struggled to get up, John stayed on his knees beside the bloody carpet. He couldn't move. The rage that had overcome him was gone, leaving a burnt out shell. Sherlock started to stand, steadying himself with his left hand on his chair. His right hand was throbbing and he was still lightheaded but that could wait. John needed him.
"John."
There was no response. John was absolutely silent. Sherlock didn't know what to do. He wanted to explain but didn't want to upset John even more.
"John," he tried again. Still nothing. He still sat as still as a statue, his shoulders the only sign of life. Sherlock sat down in his old chair. A cloud of dust rose up when he did and he coughed. He looked at his hand. There were little specks of glass ground into his palm and chunks protruding from the larger lacerations. He grabbed an old newspaper that was on the floor and laid it across his lap. From there, he went through the arduous task of pulling the glass from his fingers. There was only silent struggle happening in 221B now, mentally in John's case, physically in Sherlock's.
As Sherlock mended his hand, John was in emotional turmoil. He couldn't believe that that bastard had done this to him again but at the same time he was overjoyed to see that he wasn't dead. Part of him wanted to kill Sherlock and make him really dead this time. It was becoming a real case of the boy who cried wolf. How many more times would he 'die', only to pop back in his life and ruin him again? How many more chances was he going to take with that happening? John opened his eyes and saw a rather large and sharp piece of glass lying within arm's reach. Suddenly, the idea of Sherlock actually dying by his hand became a probability. John smiled a maniac's smile. He reached over and grabbed the large piece and started to stand.
Sherlock glimpsed John moving out of the corner of his eye. "Feeling better, John?" he asked without looking up.
John stayed quiet, not making a noise. He stood and stared at Sherlock, sitting in his old chair.
The crimson rage started to boil within his stomach again, turning his vision scarlet. His body started to tremor but his voice was clear.
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock started to ask what he meant by that when a piercing pain in the left side of his neck made him cry out in surprise. Sherlock's eyes jumped to the face of his once-beloved friend and he gasped. John was smiling. It was a psychopath's smile, one that made Sherlock realize, as the blood gushed from his punctured carotid, that he had truly lost him. That was no longer John but a monster that Sherlock had awoken.
With his last few breaths, Sherlock said his final words to who he once knew as John Watson. "B-b-but I-I loved y-y-you," and he slumped into John.
John was laughing as Sherlock's life ended. He fell to the floor, the now dead detective going with him. John laid like that, laughing, for hours.
The next morning, Mrs. Hudson walked up to see if John wanted to have some tea. Walking in, she screamed.
John was lying on the floor, eyes wide and face stretched into a contorted smile, dead, with Sherlock's cold body spread over him.