Author's note: This was originally a 3-chapter fic, but I decided to turn it into a oneshot. Just in case anyone was confused about what happened to the story!
He looks down at the ground below him. The sidewalk is empty, other than a few scraps of rubbish blowing across it. The wind snakes its fingers through his hair, and it seeps in through his coat, causing an involuntary shiver to wrack his trembling body. He closes his eyes and feels the wind on his face for one last time. He holds his breath, listening to the sounds of London before his heartbeat drowns them out, knowing that he'll never hear them again. Slowly, he raises his arms from his sides, and the wind blows his coat wide open. He takes one deep breath in, and John Watson falls from the rooftop of Saint Bartholomew's hospital.
His body jerks itself painfully, and John's eyes snap open. The rushing of his heart makes him feel dizzy, and he sits up slowly. It seems like an eternity before the ache in his chest subsides. He can barely breathe. He is trembling, just as he was in his nightmare. His hands, his legs, everything; shaking uncontrollably. He feels sick. Slowly, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. This time, the feeling passes. He looks back down at his pillows, knowing that he'll never be able to sleep again. This isn't the first nightmare about The Fall, and he knows that it will not be the last. He sits on his bed with his head in his hands for what feels like hours, even though he knows it hasn't been that long. He stands to his feet eventually, and stumbles out of his bedroom to find his way to the kitchen in the pitch blackness of the flat.
He doesn't bother to turn any lights on. What's the point? He does, however, flick on a small lamp in the living room. It's enough light to help him see into the cupboards. He takes a small glass from one, and from the other, a half finished bottle of whiskey. With his hands still shaking, he manages to fill the glass without spilling any. He raises it to his lips. Now for the fun part, he supposes. As if being jolted awake at three in the morning with a panic attack has anything fun about it. He never used to be one for whiskey, but in the rare time that Sherlock Holmes did drink, this was his drink of choice. John considers this a sort of a tribute. Sort of. He downs one glass, and then part of another. His chest starts to feel warm inside. Finally, John thinks he's about to loosen up a little. Took you enough alcohol, he scolds himself. The feeling inside his stomach returns. It worsens with each thump of his heart. John shakes his head, trying to deny it. He can't let it happen again, he just can't. He gives up. He leans over the sink, coughs, and throws up. It seems to take forever until he finally stops long enough for him to breathe.
His legs start to shake again. He props himself up on his elbows. Tears start to well up in his eyes, both from the raw burning in the back of his throat, and from the pain of hopelessness that starts to take over his being. He turns on the tap and lets the water run until he's sure that nothing is left in the sink. Once he turns it off, he leans his back against the counter and slides down onto the floor. He curls his knees to his chest, and rests his forehead on his knees. He looks at the glass, which is still in his hand. He shakes his head, and without really thinking, he throws it across the room, hearing it smash against the wall. He doesn't care anymore. It doesn't matter. It's just a glass. It's a lot like his life: fragile and empty. He stays on the floor for a little while longer, and then decides that maybe he should pick up the broken glass, just so Mrs. Hudson won't find it tomorrow. That is, if she dares to come over.
He takes a damp cloth over to the smashed glass and kneels down, nearly falling over. A sharp piece tears through the cloth, and cuts into John's hand. He takes in a sharp breath and pulls his hand back, squinting under the dim light of the lamp at the small pool of blood in his palm. His legs grow numb. Blood. God knows he's used to it. It never used to mean much to John until the day of The Fall, when it painted the cement under the body of everything he had ever truly loved.
He looks first at the cloth, then at his hand. The image of Sherlock's blood-soaked curls flashes through his head. He squeezes his eyes shut. The image does not disappear. He blinks, and cleans his hand with the cloth. Fuck it- the glass can wait until tomorrow.
He wants to go home. He doesn't belong here, in this run-down house in a nasty neighbourhood somewehere on the outskirts of Liverpool. Sherlock takes a long drag on his cigarette, tips his head back, and slowly blows out a thin cloud of smoke between his lips. He runs a hand through his newly dyed hair, and takes one last drag before flicking the last bits of ash onto the floor. He'll clean the house later, when there is absolutely nothing else left for him to do. It's not like there's anybody else here with him.
Alone. The word floats into his mind palace, and instantly, dozens of words and images and memories flare up in front of his eyes; memories of his childhood with Mycroft, and images of John. Sherlock sinks into his chair. John. He can imagine him now, sitting in 221 B Baker Street with a cup of tea and his laptop. What have I done to him? He misses John. He misses John more than anybody else he can think of. Even more than Mrs. Hudson. He wonders if he's destroyed John inside. Maybe he's sitting in the flat right now, typing something sad into his blog, his untouched cup of tea getting cold on the table. Maybe he has put away all of his ugly jumpers, and doesn't even bother to change out of his pyjamas anymore. Sherlock looks down at his package of cigarettes, tempted to have another one, but he decides against it, and tosses it across the table.
He almost regrets everything. The walls of his kitchen are cracked, with peeling wallpaper of some ugly floral pattern, and up by the ceiing, nicotine stains so thick that they're starting to look brown. Beneath him lies what was once probably a beautiful wood floor, which has now become nothing more than a bunch of pathetic, scuffed planks. He doesn't even notice the smell anymore, the smell of mildew, as well as the combination of cigarettes and different types of alcohol- both from himself, as well as the last person who lived here before abandoning the house. The great Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and only consulting detective, is living here. Of all places, here. Alone. Alone! Alone protects him, he remembers saying. But now, he's not so sure anymore. He pushes up his sleeve and looks at the raised red lines running across his wrist. Does being alone really seem to protect me now? He tugs his sleeve back down, and takes a deep breath.
He needs to see John, and he needs to do it soon.
John wants to put the world on mute. He used to enjoy taking the train from place to place and chatting idly with the strangers sitting near him. He used to enjoy looking out the window and watching everything fly past him, as if he was travelling inside a speeding bullet. Now, he can't stand the noise. Conversations going on sound like a mass of voices and random sounds, as if everyone around him suddenly started speaking another language. A toddler in the seat next to him screams out, and John flinches. The little boy's father looks at John sympathetically. It seems like John isn't the only worn out one.
John closes his eyes and focuses on the sound of the track running underneath him. Soon, it tunes out the buzz of voices, and for a while, he starts to relax. Maybe this trip to Bellever to visit an old military friend will be good for him. John can't help but think about Sherlock the entire time his eyes are closed, though. As much as he wants to see his old friend, Trevor, he doesn't want to go to Dartmoor. His therapist was excited about the idea and basically bought him the train ticket herself, but to John, the idea triggered too many memories of the Baskerville case. Better keep thinking positive, John thinks. He snorts inwardly.
As time goes on, he wishes more and more that the train was taking him home. If 221B counts as home any more. He tried moving out. He started to pack his things, but when it came to all of Sherlock's leftover belongings, John couldn't bring himself to pack them away. The second time he tried moving out, the look on Mrs. Hudson's face when he told her he was going to give her his thirty days' notice broke his heart. So he stayed. And he remains, among the emptied boxes and uncomfortably clean rooms, at Baker Street. He shakes his head at the memories flooding his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight.
The train makes a stop at Kingston Station, and John decides that he can't do this any more. He gets off, and prepares himself to call Trevor and let him know that he can't come visit this time around. He steps onto the platform, pulling his single luggage bag behind him. He doesn't notice the man who follows him out of the train. In fact, he doesn't notice until he's halfway to the ticket centre. John turns around and eyes up the stranger uncomfortably, and tries to ignore him. Afterall, he was a soldier. He can defend himself if he has to. But there's something about the blonde man in the grey bomber jacket that seems familiar. Something unthinkable creeps into John's head.
No, John tells himself. That's not him. It can't be. It just can't. The stranger turns and looks back at John, but John looks away and pretends to check his phone. The stranger is gone when he looks up.
The second time John thinks he sees the man is at Tesco. He wanders through the isles, bored, and picks up a box of cereal and pretends to read the nutrition facts. He hears footsteps coming from the other end of the isle, and he puts the box back on the shelf and looks up to find a young man with spiked hair and a ripped Union Flag shirt eyeing up the opposite shelf. It's the blonde man from the train station, John realizes. He's not close enough to see his face, but for a moment, he wants to go up to the man and say something to him. But what could he possibly say? Oh, hello, you look like my dead flatmate! John bites his lip to keep from making a sound. The man disappears from the isle, and John doesn't see him again until he reaches the checkout counter.
"Right," the young cashier says to the blonde man. "Your total is thirteen pounds, please."
"Thank you, Marta," the man says, looking at the girl's nametag. John quirks an eyebrow. Irish accent... he can't crush the disappointment that starts to fill him. Sherlock isn't Irish, that's for sure.
At the same time, he can't crush the little inkling of hope when he leaves the store.
The third time John sees the man, he's at New Scotland Yard. It's half-seven in the morning and he's on his second cup of coffee. Detective Inspector Lestrade had woken John with a simple "You need to get to the Yard. It's important" spat into the phone, and John didn't hesitate to fumble tiredly into his clothes and try to find a cab. John sits in Lestrade's office, still tired, but anxious.
The Detective Inspector enters the room and sits down on the other side of his desk.
"There is somebody here," he says after a moment of uncomfortable silence. He keeps his lips parted, but he can't seem to find the words to say next. "and none of us know what to do about it."
"What do you mean?"
"Well," Lestrade says, running his hands through his grey hair. "John, I can't even wrap my brain around this, but-"
The door bursts open, and Sergent Donovan storms in. "What in the hell is that man doing here?!"
John stands up and crosses his arms over his chest. Donovan looks like she's about to cry.
"Well," Lestrade replies, obviously irritated. "I asked John to come here."
"You know that's not who I mean," Donovan says sharply. "I walk into work, and there he is, sitting there with a cup of coffee and some smug look on his face when he sees me!" She is yelling now. "He's not even supposed to be here. Seriously, Inspector, I don't know if this is some sick joke, or if it's actually...him! He's dead! He's-"
John drops his coffee cup on the floor and pushes past Sergeant Donovan. He feels like he's floating down the hallway, in search of Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock!" he calls out. "Sherlock!" he screams Sherlock's name until his throat starts to burn. It feels like a dream. He watched his best friend fall from the rooftop and hit the pavement. He visited the grave every day. He stops, and leans against the wall. He swallows the lump beginning to form in his throat. "Sherlock!" His voice wavers, and tears start running down his face.
Footsteps come down the hallway behind him, and John tries his best to pull it together before Lestrade or Donovan sees him crying. A hand touches his shoulder, and John turns around to see the blonde man. It's him. It's Sherlock.
"I'm back, John."