Prologue
The night passes by in a blur.
Crisp. Cool. Dark.
Traffic. People. Noise.
John wades through the masses of people outside the pub, the cut on his cheek burning.
Hateful, Sherlock says in his head.
John can't tell if his blurred vision is from the lights shining into them, the alcohol burning through his veins, or the rage coursing through him. He glares at everything he passes, not really seeing anything.
He's had enough.
"Sorry about your friend." The blonde girl had said at the bar. She seemed nice enough, but if one more fucking person said they were goddamn sorry- John had clenched his fist into a tight ball in his lap. Then some nosy drunk had whipped his head around and joined in. "Who was your friend?"
The girl winces and simply replies, "He was best friends with Sherlock Holmes."
"The fake detective?"
The bartender threw John out before he could get a third punch in on the arsehole's face.
He was only half aware of where his feet are carrying him and the next thing he knew he was waving down a cab with a heavy arm, practically growling his destination to the cabbie who glared at him in response before begrudgingly turning his eyes to the road.
And now his feet are on soft grass, moving him quickly past gravestone after gravestone until he arrives at the one he loathes with every fiber of his being.
Where the hell did he even get a shovel? God only knows, but he starts digging anyway.
Time passes in a blur and before he knows it he's reached the bottom, shovel finally hitting something other than soft dirt. He reaches down, gripping the edges of the coffin-
"John."
That voice. That goddamn hateful voice behind him. Uncaring and calm. Mycroft.
"Dr. Watson. Don't." He sounds breathless in a way that John has never heard before. A surge of guilt runs through him as he stares at the lid of the coffin.
"Leave me alone," John growls, reaching down. As soon as he does a hand on his shoulder rips him back and he lets out an anguished cry as he turns shoves Mycroft back.
"Get the hell away from me!"
"What exactly is the point of this?" Mycroft says as he reaches out to John once more. Without a second thought, John's fist connects with his nose and sends him to the ground.
John stares as Mycroft's hand turns red against his pale face. His chest is heaving, eyes burning. "Get away from me," he whispers viciously.
Then he's reaching down once more, grasping the heavy lid and lifting with all the strength he has left.
Nothing. Empty.
And John is suddenly falling, falling, falling.
He hits soft ground and no wonder it's soft because there's nothing fucking in it.
