Hello, sweeties! I'm back with another angsty fic for you all!
Hope you enjoy. :)
Dammit, he'd done it again.
Honestly, he didn't know why he even bothered to try to make himself a cup of tea.
He could hardly ever seem to avoid pouring a second cup.
John sighed and dumped out the hot liquid from the red mug in his hands, carelessly plopping it into the drying rack when all was said and done. He couldn't care less if the mug should break. After all, it was only a novelty item.
Sluggishly, he picked up his own cup and shuffled into the sitting room, plopping himself down on the black chair in the sitting room. He shivered.
God it was cold in there. He was compelled to turn the heat up, but he just didn't have the heart to touch the thermostat. Sherlock wouldn't like that.
Oh, Sherlock.
It had been so long since that name had touched the doctor's lips.
Sherlock.
Two syllables, eight letters, six consonants, and two vowels.
That was the whole of it.
It was so ordinary and yet so extraordinary.
Sherlock.
John gripped the lining of the coat he had draped over his shoulders with his free hand.
Sherlock Holmes.
The coat still smelled of the detective's cologne.
John inhaled the scent, every hair on his body tingling as he did so.
Sherlock bloody Holmes.
Genius. Socially inept. Cold. Robot. Colleague.
No.
Friend.
John's knuckles turned white.
My friend.
He screwed his eyes shut ever so tightly.
Is dead.
"Sherlock!"
John's eyes flew open as suddenly as they had closed, the mug slipping from his grip and spilling hot tea on his lap and on the floor.
He felt hot tears roll down his cheeks.
But the tea only stung a little.
Damn.
He slid down onto his knees, the coat held tightly in his grip trailing behind him.
John just stared at the mess on the floor and sobbed silently.
He didn't want to bother Mrs. Hudson.
"You know, John, these sessions would be a lot more productive if you actually spoke to me."
John stared blankly out the window.
It was horribly bright outside.
"John."
The doctor shifted his gaze to the woman sitting across from him. Her glasses sat at the tip of her nose, allowing her dark, brown eyes to stare at him with the most pitiful of stares.
God he fucking hated that.
"You're wearing his coat again."
John chuckled halfheartedly.
"Yeah. So I am."
"Why don't you take it off?"
"Why don't you take off those glasses?" John said with a sneer.
The therapist sighed.
"John, it won't help you any if you start fighting with me. Fighting doesn't help anything. It only makes things worse."
John scoffed at this remark.
"John, I'm really trying to help you. But I need your cooperation."
"And what if I don't want to cooperate?"
"Then we'll just have to figure out an alternative method, now, won't we?"
John shook his head.
"My time's almost up, anyway."
The therapist set her notebook and glasses aside.
"Hopefully those frames won't be bothering you much now."
John just rolled his eyes.
God how he hated this woman.
The therapist cleared her throat and smoothed out her skirt.
"It's obvious I'm not going to get anything helpful out of you, so I'm just going to give you some advice. Is that alright with you?"
John shrugged, well past able to give a damn.
"John," she started. "You need to stop living in the past. I know it's hard to move on. Death is a tragedy that is unfortunate, but it's natural."
"He jumped off of a fucking building."
The therapist pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.
"I realize, John. My point is, we all experience loss at one point in our lives. We can't live life and avoid it. That just simply isn't done. We just have to face it head on and push through."
She paused for a moment.
"But," she continued, hesitantly, "You can't conquer this by continuing these habits of yours. Malnutrition won't solve your problems, John. And neither will wearing his coat. You just need to accept that Sherlock is dead. And all you can do is try to move on."
"I tried moving on. It didn't bloody work," John said as he stood up from his chair.
Hastily, he buttoned up the tattered coat he wore and flipped up the collar.
"I think we're done here."
The therapist just shook her head sadly as she watched John stride out of the door, the coat barely brushing the floor.
She knew she probably wouldn't be seeing him again.
The tea grew colder as the hours passed by.
And all John could do was watch as it happened.
He gave up on moving.
He imagined how soothing it might have been, having most likely been infused with some herb of some sort. Oh hell, John didn't know. That wasn't his area of expertise. Mrs. Hudson knew what she was doing. John recalled the look of worry on his landlady's face as she set down the tea tray in front of him. He also remembered the sigh she gave as she left the room. Mrs. Hudson only ever sighed like that when she was in distress.
He didn't really care anymore.
He had stopped going to his therapist's weeks ago, and had since then resigned himself to the black chair, only ever rising to use the loo.
The flat was still as cold as ever.
And the coat seemed to wear even thinner.
Nevertheless, John clutched onto it for dear life. It was the only thing keeping him sane.
Or what he thought was sane.
He didn't know anymore.
He didn't care anymore.
Sherlock.
Fuck.
John was so tired of seeing Sherlock. It was starting to wear down on him.
On the couch, in the kitchen, at the desk on the laptop; it didn't matter how tightly John closed his eyes or how often he rubbed them.
Sherlock was always there.
A part of him was relieved that he had some piece of the consulting detective with him, be it tangible or not. But he knew that the hallucinations were only further separating him from reality.
Maybe he wanted that, though. That wouldn't be so bad. Reality was bloody awful, anyways.
With a sigh, John stood up and shuffled into the bathroom, ignoring the fact that he nearly tripped on the coat's trim. He forgot how short he really was.
Looking in the mirror above the sink was something John quickly wished he hadn't done.
Those crisp, blue eyes were staring at him from behind.
Quickly, John whipped his head around, desperately hoping that for once this wasn't a hallucination.
Of course, all he saw was the adjacent wall.
Fuck.
John looked back at himself in the mirror. Even he had to admit he looked awful; graying hair, dull eyes, drawn features, ghostly pallor, stubble.
He hated what he'd become. He didn't want this. But he could hardly control it.
How was it that a conceited, unsociable genius could so easily earn a soldier's heart?
And why was it so hard for John to take it back?
John exhaled silently and gave a small sob.
He looked at the counter and spotted the razor.
No, that would be stupid of him.
Or would it?
With a trembling hand, John picked up the razor.
Jesus, this was stupid. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
"Don't be dull."
John shut his eyes tightly and fought back the memory.
He fucking had to.
He rolled back the tattered sleeve of the coat and slowly made a horizontal cut across his wrist.
It hurt quite a bit, and he hissed against the pain.
But he felt something besides grief.
And that was all that mattered.
He shut the bathroom door and locked it.
John sighed as he scrolled through his text messages.
Received October 3rd
'Hey, mate. How are you holding up? –GL'
'John? –GL'
Received October 7th
'Heading out to the pub for a pint. Want to join me? –GL'
'Come on, John, I think you need a bit of company. –GL'
'Call me soon, alright? –GL'
Today
'I haven't heard from you in a while, mate. You're starting to worry me. Please check in. –GL'
'John. –GL'
'I'm coming over there. –GL'
John swore under his breath. That message was sent at least ten minutes before. Lestrade would arrive soon.
Fuck.
John looked down at his wrists, still bleeding a bit profusely. If Lestrade saw him like this…
Quickly, John hopped out of the chair and shed the coat, though it pained him to do so. He looked about the flat.
A bit dusty, but that much doesn't matter.
John pocketed his cell and hastily rolled up his sleeves. He just had to hope his wrists wouldn't bleed through the fabric.
He looked in the mirror above the mantle. Still a bit stubbly.
God if he could only shave.
There was a knock at the door.
"John?"
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Yeah. Coming," John said, as normally as he possibly could.
He opened the door and was greeted by the semi-relieved face of Greg Lestrade.
"Jesus. mate, you had me thinking the worst when you weren't responding. How are you?"
John rubbed his arm a bit.
"Oh, you know… it's been, ah… rough. But I'm, er… I'm doing okay."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
"You look a bit worse for wear."
John chuckled a bit nervously.
"Yeah well, you know. Shaving is a pain in the ass. Wasn't feeling up to it."
Lestrade cracked a small smile.
"Yeah."
He frowned at the coat on the chair.
"Are you still wearing that thing, John?"
John looked over his shoulder at the garment in question.
"Oh… no. No. I gave up on that thing months ago. Tea?"
Lestrade nodded a bit hesitantly. He sat down in a chair in the kitchen and watched as John bustled about.
"A bit nippy in here, isn't it?"
John shrugged.
"Doesn't really bother me."
Lestrade sighed.
"Look, John, you really ought to get back to work at the hospital."
"Oh. Yeah."
"I mean it, John. Mrs. H can only put you up here for free for so long. She is your landlady, you know, and she needs to make her money."
John sighed.
"Yeah. I was going to get right on that tomorrow."
Lestrade frowned.
"No you weren't. I know you're still holding yourself up here. Still wearing that coat."
John went still.
Lestrade walked over to the man and turned him around the face him.
"John, why did you stop going to your therapist?"
No response.
"I really do think you need the help. There are people who care about you, John. People who are worried about you. I'm one of those people. I don't like to see you this way."
John just stood in silence. gripping the counter with his right hand.
There was a sharp inhale from Lestrade which John registered as a gasp.
"John… you're bleeding."
John's eyes snapped over to his wrist.
Shit.
The blood was seeping through.
He protectively grabbed his wrist.
"John," Lestrade said with a stern expression, "Let me see."
Reluctantly, John held out his arm and rolled up his sleeve.
"Oh, John."
John's arm was littered with scars, making his arm almost unrecognizable.
"I tried not to. But I couldn't stop seeing him," John said as quietly as possible.
Lestrade just looked at him with that same look of pity the therapist used to give.
"Please leave," John said, his voice cracking.
"John-"
"Please. Just go."
Lestrade grabbed the man's shoulder.
"You can't keep doing this to yourself, John. No matter what you think, hurting yourself won't make the pain go away."
John shrugged off his hand.
"Leave."
Lestrade slowly withdrew his hand and walked away. He knew there wasn't much he could do for John, but he knew someone that could do something.
He got out his phone.
He's getting worse. Text your brother; tell him he needs to come back. –GL
'Noted. –MH'
John slid into the bath water.
He felt so numb.
The water soaked through the fabric of the coat, weighing the lightweight doctor down.
But he didn't care.
He stared up at the ceiling, unblinking.
He knew what he had done was perhaps the most idiotic thing he could have possibly thought of doing. But he'd done it, and what's done is done.
It didn't hurt. In fact, it felt quite nice. This was nothing compared to being shot. There was no shrapnel to remove, no bombs, no nothing.
The only sound in the bathroom was the slight sloshing of water and the echoing of the slowly dripping tap.
And blood was quite silent.
John's gaze lazily fell upon the water surrounding his feet. It was gradually swarming with red clouds.
It was quite beautiful, really. It was like watching a dance. When he shifted his heels, the clouds swirled around, spreading more red in the water.
He was satisfied just watching the dancing clouds of red as he allowed his vision to blur and darken.
He recalled a time when he was a young boy and had been scared of the darkness. Of what lurked there.
But this time, he welcomed what lurked in the darkness.
Sherlock.
That was all he needed to feel ready.
The peace of the moment was rudely interrupted by the sound of a door crashing open, soon followed by a pounding on the bathroom door.
"John!"
He heard his name being called, but it started to become muffled.
"Sh'lock…" John muttered.
That name. Oh yes. It felt so good to say, even if it came out a bit mottled.
He heard the door come crashing in, and soon felt wiry arms wrapping around him and lifting him out of the pink water. It was getting harder and harder to see, but he could have sworn he saw a mess of black curls hovering above his head.
"What have you done?!" he heard this figure say.
The voice sounded so familiar.
"'lock…" John mumbled.
He felt the coat being roughly yanked off of him. He wanted to fight but his limbs seemed unwilling to cooperate.
And that was okay.
His vision went black, and the voice shouting his name faded away into nothingness.
"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John."
A figure fell through the sky. Its coat flapped in the wind.
Sherlock.
Red. All he could see was red.
He lay motionless on the pavement.
Oh God. Sherlock.
"Sherlock!"
John's eyes shot open. He found himself breathing rather rapidly, some breaths catching in his throat.
He looked to his side and saw the IV and blood bag.
He looked at his arms and saw the thick, white bandages.
No. This couldn't be happening. Had he failed at his own suicide?
Fuck. No. Why?
He just wanted it all to stop.
"John?"
He looked over at the plastic chair across the room.
Sherlock was sitting there.
God no.
Tears began to roll down John's cheeks.
"Why can't you leave me be?" John squeaked out.
God it hurt so much to talk.
"Here. Have some water," Sherlock said, reaching for a glass by the bed.
John shook his head.
"You know, that was a rather foolish thing to do."
"Figures. Now that I can't run away, here you are, telling me off. Haunting me."
Sherlock gave him a sad look.
"John, I'm right here."
"I want to believe that. You don't even know how much I want to believe that."
Sherlock cupped John's cheek with his hand.
"How real does that feel, John?"
John looked at him in disbelief.
No. Was what he was feeling… real?
Slowly, he brought his hand up to the one on his cheek, brushing over it with his fingers. He grasped onto it a bit more firmly.
Oh God. It was real. He was sure of it.
Just then, a nurse walked into the room.
"Oh, Doctor Watson. You're awake!"
John looked over at her, his grip on the hand never loosening.
"Can you see him?" he asked, quietly.
"What; him?" the nurse asked, looking over at Sherlock. "I don't see how I couldn't. The man practically wrestled me in order to stay in here with you."
John looked back at Sherlock, eyes glistening.
"Oh my God."
Sherlock looked at the nurse.
"Leave us be. Check his vitals later."
The nurse nodded her head and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
"Sherlock," John whimpered. "It's you."
"Yes we've established that."
John's expression hardened.
"It's you."
He yanked away Sherlock's hand and sat himself up. He then punched the man square in the nose.
"You're alive, you fucking bastard!"
Sherlock grasped onto the bedsheets and pulled himself up from the floor, rubbing his nose.
"Good to see you too."
"I can't believe you! Do you have any idea what I went through?! What I did to myself over you?!"
Sherlock, still kneeling on the floor, spoke.
"I thought the coat would've helped you."
"You're the one who left the coat in the flat? I thought that was-"
"Lestrade? Yes, I figured."
There was a moment of silence.
"Was I the only one who didn't know?"
Sherlock went silent.
"Sherlock; was I the only one?"
Sherlock answered hesitantly.
"No. Mrs. Hudson didn't know."
"Why were we chosen to be left out of the picture?"
"Mrs. Hudson can't keep her mouth shut. And you…"
"Yes?"
"…I thought it was for the best."
John gritted his teeth.
"How could you possibly think that leaving me to think my best friend was dead could be 'for the best'?!"
"I'm a danger to you, John. Sometimes I think it would have been best if we hadn't met."
John shook his head.
"If we hadn't met, I would have ended up here a lot sooner."
Sherlock nodded.
"So would I."
John sighed and closed his eyes.
"Jesus."
Sherlock sat back down on the bed and twiddled his thumbs.
"I can tell you're angry."
John grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed it tightly.
"I'm furious. But I'm glad you're here."
Sherlock smiled.
"Ditto."
John snuggled back under the blanket and closed his eyes. He felt the detective grab his shoulder.
"Don't ever pull something like that again, John. I was sure I'd lost you."
"How does it feel, cock?"
"Awful."
John laughed humorlessly.
"Multiply that feeling times ten."
Sherlock looked down guiltily at his feet.
"No apology is going to fix this, is it?"
John shook his head.
"You're going to have to work your ass off to get me to forgive you."
"Right."
The two sat in silence for a while, the beeping of machines filling in the awkwardness.
"God, I'm tired," John mumbled, suddenly.
Sherlock looked down at him and brushed a stray hair out of his face.
"Then sleep."
John opened his eyes slightly and looked at the detective.
"If I do, will you still be here when I wake up?"
Sherlock smiled.
"I'm not leaving you ever again, John. You have my word."
John giggled.
"And your word is gospel."
"You'd better believe it."
John sighed and closed his eyes again.
"Sorry about your coat."
Sherlock gave a small laugh.
"I have a spare."
"'Course you do."
"Don't worry now, John. Sleep."
Another brief pause.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Remind me to punch you again when I wake up."
Sherlock smirked.
"Duly noted."
Poor John. He can't seem to catch a break. Especially when I'm doing the writing. :P
Reviews are always appreciated!