Hello! I'm Kathleen, and this is my first time writing a serious fic and not just drabbl, though I'm sure a lot of this will be just drabble. I'd love for you to give it a shot!
Takes place three years after the Fall, and of course spoilers. Sherlock does not belong to me.
221B's wall, usually filled with spraypaint and the iconic black and white walpaper, now sat a pale grey as John rested, staring into the nothingness. It had been nearly three years since Sherlock had jumped. John had quit his job since, living off the small fortune Sherlock had left him. He felt only resentment at the money, and his dead best friend. John's daily routine consisted of getting up at nine, taking a shower, making two cups of coffee, pouring one cup of coffee down the drain, watching telly, going to the supermarket, watching more telly, and going to bed. Sometimes, he would see one of Sherlock's coats in the closet, and think that Sherlock still lived with him. This was when he was happiest, even if the mistake only lasted a fleeting moment.
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221B's wall, barren of any decoration or emotion, was a parallel to John. He hadn't been to his therapist in a week and a half, and there had been no food in his fridge for nearing 5 days. The phone kept ringing, but whether it be Molly, Mycroft or Lestrade, John saw no point in picking it up. He knew that they were 'worried about him' and just 'wanted to help', but John more than anyone knew that he had dug himself a deep pit of depression that there was no getting out of. John hadn't talked to anyone but his therapist for almost a month, and now that he stopped seeing her, all human contact was lost. It wasn't until Mrs Hudson got the spare keys to let Lestrade in that John spoke. Lestrade seemed genuinely concerned, but John knew there was nothing anyone could do. All he wanted was his friend back.
'John, it's been a month since we spoke. It's been a month since YOU spoke. Molly and I are scared for you. You look like you're dying.'
It took a while for John to respond, but when he did his voice was low and shaky. 'I am.' Lestrade faltered.
'Wait, do you mean… like… cancer?'
'No, you idiot,' John gave a little chuckle, finding humor in Lestrade's ignorance. 'I haven't moved from this spot in a week. I havent eaten since Mrs Hudson left some cookies at the door two days ago.' He sighed. 'I can't go on like this.'
Ok a very very short little first chapter, the next one is kinda stupid. (yeah I already have it written bite me) I'd love some reviews, though!
