It was silent. It was always silent now, without him around. No gunshots, explosions, violins, clattering, or texts. He doesn't enjoy the silence.
As he faced the one thing that pulled him back together when the world had fallen apart in Afghanistan, the quiet gasp broke the silence before it enveloped him again. His mouth fell open in a silent sort of scream and the twice-broken soldier felt his poorly healed heart crack again. The excuses, they fell on deaf ears. He was used to the silence. He wanted the silence, the lack of chaos that the other man exuded. He turned away without a word, gathering the few things he needed and left. No words, no noise; just silence. The pain behind bright blue eyes went unnoticed. With his cane in his right hand, he limped carefully down the stairs, and shut the door behind him heavily on the way out. The brass knocker bumped on the backing and drew his sight to the numbers above it. 221B. His home for almost four years; a chaotic hell, a home, a haven, a place of happiness; a death, the silence, a heart's destruction, an absence.
He never returned.
Days later, two brothers sat together on a sofa worn and lumpy from a lanky man flopping around it for a year, stepping on it when he was in a tantrum. Silence reined over the house, home, not-a-home, as they looked together at the headline: "Invalided Army Doctor Commits Suicide by Jumping off Hospital Roof." The silence was too much. The silence stole lives and hearts and minds. It stole innocence and memories. But most of all, it stole him. It stole his best friend, the only one who would put up with him. The silence stole John.