AN: this is a little drabble. ive been reading this VERY sad and emotional fanfic all day. and though my little drabble isn't even remotly relevant to that fanfiction, i feel like it carries the same emotion.
you can read the fic i was reading here: s/7754816/1/
i warn you, it breaks your soul and then proceeds to stuff it inside a blender and puree it.
so yeah, this drabble kinda doesn't make sense, just one of those lining of my brain fics. but if you enjoy it, coolio :3
"SHERLOCK!" came the lone cry in the night. Dr. Watson bolts up, sweating. He looks around him, the room is dark and stuffy. Silent, too silent. His chest is heaving as sweat drips down his back. A nightmare, another nightmare. They'll never end will they? John asks himself bitterly as he swings his legs over the side of his bed and stands. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it at the ends. The weight of his life hits him as it does every nightmare night.
He is alone.
Gone is Sherlock. Gone is the excitement and the wonder. The doctor will never again see the face of the great Sherlock Holmes.
The clock on his bedside reads 3:30AM. Perfect, just what I need. I've got work in three hours! John scolds himself while walking over to his little window. This little window is the only plus side to his dingy little flat. The window was small and round. No bigger than the size of John's own head. It faced away from the street to look upon the night sky. Most nights he never sees the stars, tonight is no exception.
"its funny, Sherlock," he says aloud, staring up at the dark sky. "You never cared much for the sky, ironic isn't it? For you now live among the stars." He said delicately, turning his back on the night.
He sees Sherlock in everything, see. The city itself is him in so many ways. John can only hope that he has no memory triggers. Those are the good days.
He has bad days too.
These days are scary. He could be walking down the street and see a tall man, or a dark head of hair. His mind will retreat in on itself. He'll have thoughts. Bad scary thoughts that would chill anyone's bones. Mycroft has attempted numerous times to have him hospitalized. Telling john that the doctors can make him better. John normally scoffs.
There is no better, not for him. John makes his way back to his bed, carefully avoiding looking at sky; the thought of Sherlock looking down on him is too overwhelming. Sliding under the covers, john feels no warmth, he is numb.
I am gone Sherlock.