A/N: Don't have a beta or Brit-picker, all errors are my fault (apologies). Although I sincerely hope you enjoy this, all kinds of feedback are welcome :) I suppose if I don't get at least a couple reviews/faves/follows I won't post any more so if you like it ... you know what to do ;)

Disclaimer: These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC, the canon belonging to ACD. That guy needs a country named after him or something.

UPDATE (25/02/12): If you prefer the AO3 layout, this story and the sequel are available there. Link's in my profile. :)

Don't you know you're everything I have?
..and I, wanna live, not just survive, tonight.

For three years, John tried to forget.

He hadn't returned to 221B save one time (Was it days after it happened? A couple of weeks?), to simply collect the bare necessities. They were so bare, though, that he hadn't even needed a small suitcase. He'd taken what he had to and left; hadn't set foot in Baker Street since.

He hadn't been to New Scotland Yard. There was no point going there anymore. He hadn't been to Angelo's, or any other such restaurants. He hadn't been to St. Bart's.

He lived in Tower Hamlets now, in a small flat. By himself.

Before he figured out what he had to do, no matter how hard he tried, he'd see something, hear something, smell something, and it would trigger his memory, his cursed memory, why couldn't he just forget, and then he'd feel something.

It threatened to all but consume him, this feeling.

This hatred.

At first, everything and everyone was a mess. No, not a mess; it was more like the whole of London was in chaos. It was a huge scandal after all, so many truths wrapped up in a whopping big lie. Believing the lie because it was easier than wrapping their heads round the truth.

John hated them all.

So when Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, Ella, everyone, even Sally, contacted John with condolences and all but threatened to drown him in faux sympathy, he ignored them. Because they had done this - destroyed a life John didn't know he needed. They had fuelled Moriarty's fire.

Moriarty. Just the name made John see red. He'd never been a violent man (outside his duties as a soldier), but he mused that if he ever came across this particular monster, this filth, he would make an exception.

A vary uncharacteristically torturous exception.

And yet thoughts of Moriarty led to even more… hated ones, so John rarely thought about him.

Instead, he tried to forget.

He tried to forget running through London, taking shortcuts no one else knew. He tried to forget giggling at crime scenes. He tried to forget boredom and being disgusted at things in the fridge and feeling utterly irritated when there was no case on.

He tried to forget about yellow paint, pottery, pink. He tried to forget about ticking timers and scandals and hounds. He tried to forget about that painting, about fairytales with their villains, about breadcrumbs and chocolate and mind games he didn't understand and being a fugitive and falling -

God, why couldn't he just fucking forget?

Why couldn't he forget that coat? That scarf? That violin? Those stupid, stupid cheekbones and God help him, that voice?

Those ever-changing eyes?

Every day had become a test of survival, because John wasn't living anymore. He was surviving.

He had tried to lose himself in various ways. Drinking, sleeping with anyone who was willing (men or women, he wasn't picky), even … recreation.

But never cocaine, never cigarettes.

Either way, it had all come to nothing because nothing worked. Drinking left him feeling sick because he was just mirroring his sister. After the fifth, he had stopped picking up anyone at the bar. It had felt so wrong in so many ways. And those damn drugs went against all his morals as a doctor and as a somewhat faithful Christian.

When John was serving in the army, he had this dark place in his mind where he would go to block out the maelstrom of gunfire and screams and death all around him when it threatened to overwhelm him. He would tune out his emotions and focus only on the facts and medical knowledge that he needed in order to be of assistance. It helped him concentrate, helped him help the wounded. So it really hadn't come as a surprise, in the end, that when the whole world turned into a battlefield worse than those he'd seen in Afghanistan, he retreated into that dark place and thought only about helping those in need of healing. Working at St Ann's was what he had to do. Sometimes he would spend all day there, not eating, not sleeping except a fitful half hour nap (being a doctor, he knew complete lack of sleep would be counter-productive), just helping anyone he could with his caring hands, calming demeanour, and a soothing voice. The rest of the workers had caught up with him a fair few times to tell him that he'd done enough for the day, he was such a determined worker, an angel, but it was time to go home now, he could go home and rest - but they didn't understand. Working was the only way he could rest. The only way he could stay in the dark place, and therefore the only way he could find some modicum of peace. It was the only way he could stop himself either going mad or breaking completely from the constant fire, the maelstrom of memories and screams and death that never seemed to stop outside that hospital. It was the only way he could fight getting slashed open over and over and over again and the only way to survive the ever-present hatred.

Survive. Why bother surviving when there's nothing left to survive for?

But such thoughts were always left behind when he retreated into the dark place. He had decided either consciously or subconsciously to continue his work as a doctor as there always had seemed to be some merit in saving others. Saving lives of strangers. Saving lives to sustain his own existence.

Surviving. When was it going to get easier?

Maybe he was just trying to compensate for the one life he couldn't save.

John was a soldier. John was a doctor. John was an exArmy doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and he would bloody do what he'd always done - soldier on.

But it really was inevitable that one day his resolve crashed and burned.