Hey guys, I hope you're all well :) I recently got bored and started writing a new fanfiction. It will be multi-chapter and I'll do my best to update as often as possible.
Probably you know this, but... always happy to see reviews! x
Warnings: Drug abuse, hurt, smut, I don't cover the costs of tissues you might need
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, otherwise Johnlock would be canonly canon already.
Silence had finally fallen over London. The big city seemed to be asleep, everything was so peaceful. At least for those who didn't see the battlefield. For those who had never seen the darkness of London, the coldness. For those who didn't see the broken ones. How lucky they were.
A tall man walked lonely through the streets while only his shadow was there to follow him along the pavement, the light of the moon and a lantern made his appearance seem mysterious, almost ghostly. Just as ghostly as the reflection of the light combined with his shadow on the water of the Thames River. The soft waves played with the picture, distorted it almost beautifully. It was as if his existence started to blur, as if the water tried to pull him down, to drown him. Wouldn't it be easy, just to let the cold water embrace him and wash away the pain. To let silence fall over him at last.
The night was calming, but also it laid sadness over him. He blew the smoke of a cigarette out of his lungs and wrapped his black coat tighter around his body. He didn't feel cold, he didn't feel anything at all except emptiness. What had made him complete, what had given him a life, a reason, was now gone. Had never been his. Never would be his. It was too late to fight now. What had been his everything was gone, had left him alone, and still it was there, in his mind. There were too many memories of times which were the past, which would never leave him. And maybe it was just this that destroyed the man now. Slowly, piece by piece.
He didn't live anymore. He just existed, going under in the crowd. There was no one to hear him, to see him. Because caring was not an advantage. It was a chemical defect that pushed him onto the losing side, a defect he had tried to avoid but couldn't.
Human error.
"John, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about", Mary sighed during breakfast. "Relax."
"I texted him, he didn't reply." Something had told John earlier that there was a reason to be worried about Sherlock. Furthermore, he hadn't seen him since the wedding, and Sherlock wasn't the type not to answer a text.
"Maybe he has a case going on", Mary said. Her words weren't able to convince John.
"You know Sherlock, he always answers. I'm going to visit him after breakfast."
John felt like he definitely needed to check on his friend. Urgently. Maybe it was also that he simply missed Sherlock. John hadn't mentioned it to Mary, but he had nightmares at night again. Since they had got married John had started to dream of war again, and sometimes there was Sherlock. When he had met Sherlock years ago, the nightmares had stopped. After Sherlock's faked suicide, there had been nightmares again – of Sherlock jumping from the rooftop of St Bart's. And now it was war another time, but between shots and deaths and explosions, there was Sherlock. Just smiling at him, taking him on a case.
Unconsciously, John knew exactly that he wasn't as happy as he wanted to be with Mary and that his life should be the life he could have with Sherlock. But consciously, John of course wouldn't admit this. Wouldn't admit that he wasn't happy, that he had nightmares again, that he missed Sherlock. But could he go back to that life just like that? It was too late now. Sadly, John had made a wrong decision and it would be difficult to change the situation. John just tried to get along with it now even if he didn't know what exactly he was doing there. Pretending that everything was fine. Lying to himself.
Although Mary had assured him for several times that Sherlock would be fine, John was on the underground towards Baker Street shortly after breakfast. With every minute the feeling that something was wrong with Sherlock worsened and if there was something John really hoped for at the moment, it was that his worries would be unwarranted.
When John turned his key in the lock of the well-known door of the house, a familiar and warm feeling crept through his body. Mrs Hudson apparently wasn't at home as there was no sign of her, so John immediately went upstairs to 221B. A smile formed on his lips. This was just home. Or at least had been. For many years.
Silence greeted him as he opened the door. The flat was enlightened by the sun shining softly through the window and as always there was a bit of dust swirling in the air. Nothing had changed. Somehow this still was more home than the house he had now with Mary. John had simply too many memories connecting him to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock, Mrs Hudson... They had been his family, still were important to him and always would be.
But where was Sherlock right now? John's first thought was that Sherlock actually might have gone out, but his coat was hanging on the door. So Sherlock had to be around as he never left the flat without his coat.
"Sherlock?", John asked loudly. At that time of day Sherlock never was asleep. If he didn't had a case, he normally was busy annoying everyone around him or blowing things up in the kitchen.
Still, there was nothing but silence. Frowning, John looked around until he finally caught sight of Sherlock's back on the sofa. And something was definitely wrong there.
It already hit John as he glanced at the small table while approaching Sherlock. This just couldn't be. It simply couldn't. Horror was written in the former soldier's face within a split of a second. John's hand almost automatically reached for Sherlock's shaking wrist to check for a pulse. Too fast. Racing. Definitely too fast for someone of perfect health. Too fast for someone alive.
Sherlock's hand was cold and pale, but his forehead glistened from sweat as John turned him carefully towards him. He didn't look human at all, dark circles were beneath his eyes and his skin was even paler than usually. This man was more a ghost than a living human, only a shadow of who this man actually was.
"John." It was a hoarse whisper coming from Sherlock's lips, he obviously had difficulties to move his lips, to move any part of his trembling body.
"John, I..." The detective seemed to try fixing his gaze on John, but before John had the chance to say something, to ask what had happened, to do something, Sherlock's eyes closed. Only pain was still visible in his face.
"No!", John shouted terrified, slightly slapping his best friend's cheek. Trying to wake him up again, trying to make him open his eyes again. He had seen a lot when he had served the army. Painful and violent deaths, injuries. But this, this was just too much. It was something he couldn't bear to watch, something he couldn't bear to let happen. He couldn't lose Sherlock another time.
"Sherlock, this is definitely not the right moment to ignore me!"
