The therapist was completely unhelpful. Nothing could help him at this point. Wars and crime scenes were nothing compared to the trauma that came from this sort of event… It's been three months since John had last seen his consulting detective. Everything seemed just a bit lonelier these days. The flat was left empty most of the time, with nothing but a few of Dr. Watson's things amongst the clutter of a madman.
There were books strewn across the tables, and papers of all kinds were lining the floor. The large mirror above the mantle was gathering dust, and the case for an abandoned violin sat atop a pile of old clothes. And speaking of clothes, various pairs of trousers and a turquoise shirt lay upon the plush red chair in the living room.
Mrs. Hudson had made an attempt to clean up, but being there only ended in tears and broken vases.
Boxes had begun to congregate outside the flat, empty. No matter how many times John told himself he was ready he always found himself alone in a cab. Driving back, once again, to a jet black grave. It was nothing special, but it meant the entire world to John. This was the only place where he could have some peace. The only place where he could remember the good times.
On this particular day, he had woken up in a cold sweat. His hands were shaking and his pajamas stuck to his skin. It was about three in the morning, which meant that this was more sleep than he usually got these days.
He had dreamt of falling. Falling so fast, and so long that it seemed like an eternity. Below him, all he could see was a body. A body lying perfectly still with nothing but emptiness within icy grey eyes. Curly black hair tarnished with thick, dark blood. And some nights, John wished for nothing more than to join him on the curb.
Suddenly, he found himself sobbing. Gross, heavy sobs that left his stomach in pain and his jaw sore. He regained his composure long enough to take a hot shower and get dressed, then proceeded to take a cab down to the cemetery. Every time he got in a cab, he made sure to watch where he was going. That was another one of the good memories. Unveiling a serial murderer as a simple cabby. Of course, now when he rode alone he always checked to make sure he was where he was meant to be.
He hopped out, payed the cab, and headed to the spot that he'd memorized. He looked into his own eyes through the polished stone, wondering what really happened. How it happened. Why…
More often now, he saw his former companions face in the shadows. Passing behind him, or staring from across the room. Sometimes, even a wispy reflection in his own grave. Today, it was much clearer. He stood tall behind him, blank expression as always… and John could almost feel his breath, warm on his neck.
"I miss you, ya know. More than you could ever imagine. Why just… Why would you do something like this? Didn't you even think for a second about what it would do to everyone? What it would do to ME?" The shadow looked back at him with the most emotion possible for him. He seemed to be nodding as a single tear fell from his cheek.
"Well you shouldn't have done it." His voice began to crack. "Y-you should NEVER… Have done that." He was on the verge of tears at this point, so he decided this would be a good time to leave. But as he tried to walk backwards, he found himself blocked by a tall figure in a long coat.
"That's why I didn't." It was the same voice that had both haunted and graced his dreams for the past several months. A low, even voice capable of turning anyone's knees to goop. The voice that stopped time from turning.