The rain trickled down the window of the cab as John sat in the back seat, gazing at the building he once called home. It had been just over 8 months since he set foot in 221B Baker Street, 8 months since the fall. He couldn't bring himself to reside in a place that would only bring about pain, instead taking up shelter in whatever cheap motel he found himself nearest to at sat there, dwelling on the months leading up to this moment; the ways he had chosen to live his life. He spent most of his days tucked away in coffee shops, blogging and reading the paper. Sometimes he'd have coffee with Molly, and, from time to time, tea with Mycroft. His nights spent at pubs drinking away his sorrows. Every so often Lestrade would join him for a drink and reminisce about the good old days.
"I'm not sure he ever thought me a friend." Said Lestrade whilst lowering his pint after letting out a lowered sigh of pleasure from the swig he had just taken. "A co-worker maybe, I can't say we spent much time together when not on a case."
"Allies. I believe to him we were all seen as allies. "I don't have any friends", those were the exact words he said to me during that case in Dartmoor."
And then John let out a small chuckle spoke again in a quiet, inaudible voice.
"Just the one…"
John stared into his pint, slowly swirling it around in his hand. Lestrade took another swig and glanced down at his friend beside him. He could see the sorrow on his face, the loneliness and pain he had succumbed to.
"Have you been back to the flat yet?" He said rising to his feet and taking the pint glass from John and carrying it over to a table nearby. John followed and pulled out the chair to take a seat
"No…My psychiatrist says I should. She says it will help bring closure, but to be honest…I'm not sure I want that. I don't want to close that door because some stupid part of me still wants to believe, believe he's out there, that he will come back." John took up his pint while Lestrade lowered his.
"Well if you want my opinion, and I don't actually care if you do or not because I going to tell you anyway, I think you should return." Lestrade set his pint on the table and leaned forward towards John.
"You're a mess John, and that's not to say you haven't gotten better since that day, but you're taking your sweet time doing so. Now you've been a great asset to me and the force on the few cases I've brought you in on but your mind has always been distracted. I've seen it on your face; I see it on you right now. Now I'm not saying you need to close any doors, but maybe returning to the flat will help you at least get some of the deeply seeded emotion out. There's no reason you can't be happy and mournful at the same time"
He reached for his pint and downed another gulp and proceeded to recline in his chair.
"Lord knows most people are."
John exited the cab and stood in the rain as it drove off, thinking about the talk he had with Lestrade that night, as he stared up at the window that looked into the flat. His jacket became damp and heavy as droplets of water began to form at the tips his wet greying hair, rolling down his face when they so choose. The door to the building slowly swung open and in the doorway stood Mrs. Hudson. She stared at John, whose eyes still fixated on the window, and a small sympathetic smile grew across her face.
"No sense in you catching a cold dear."
John's eyes slowly descended from the window to look upon where the voice came from. They made eye contact with each other and Mrs. Hudson gave a small wave for John to come inside. As John approached the threshold he was greeted with a comforting embrace.
"It's good to see you again dear, it's been too long." They let go of each other as John stepped in, Mrs. Hudson closing the door behind him. John removed his drenched jacket and hung it up on the wall, looking over the foyer as if he was a guest in an estranged home. "I'll put the kettle on, make yourself at home."
John stood in the foyer looking up at the steps leading to the place he once called home as Mrs. Hudson drifted into another room. A heavy feeling came over him, doubt and second judgment began to cloud his mind.
"I've left it just the way it was" Mrs. Hudson called out and then reentered the foyer with a tea platter. "Though I got rid of some of the, ehem, experiments in the fridge."
John followed Mrs. Hudson into a small elegant living room and watched as she set down the platter on a small table. She poured herself a cup of tea and then a second cup for John and took a seat beside the table and looked up at him.
"Please, sit down dear. Have some tea."
John took a seat across from her but did not take up the tea she offered, instead he just sat back looking at the cup before him with a blank stare.
"I was beginning to wonder when I'd ever see you again."
John looked up at Mrs. Hudson who calmly sipped her tea.
"I hope the cheques for the rent have been making it to you?"
He leaned forward, taking up his cup of tea.
"Yes dear, but I haven't cashed them. Like I told you, I'm not going to charge you rent for a house you're not living in, especially after what you have been through. Have you been feeling better at all? I must admit I was quite surprised when you called the other day asking about dropping by."
"To be honest, I'm not sure how I am, nor am I sure why I'm really here. My psychiatrist says I need to be here to close a door. Lestrade says I need to be here to just let some of the emotion out. I don't really know what compelled me in the end, all I know is I'm here now and I'm not sure what to do."
"You're not supposed to know dear, it will just come naturally."
Mrs. Hudson took another sip of her tea and set down her cup on the platter. She leaned over and put her hand on John's leg and his eyes locked with hers.
"Never be afraid of closing a door dear, it doesn't mean they that person can't return, it just means they'll have to knock first."
She smiled and sat back in her chair. John took another sip of his tea, set down his cup and rose from his chair.
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson. If you don't mind…"
She nodded and John exited the room back into the foyer and began to slowly ascend the staircase. His feet started to feel heavy with every step he took, his racing with the advice everyone had given to him. He reached the final stair in exhaustion and felt as though he could have collapsed, but continued on and approached the door, stopping in front of what was now a gateway into the past. He sighed deeply, a shaking, sweaty hand slowly rising, clutching the knob and opening the floodgate of his mind.
The door creaked open and John let go halfway, leaving the rest of the door to open on its own. He stood in the doorway, taking in everything bit by bit. It was, like Mrs. Hudson had said, exactly how they had left things, only now a small coating of dust blanketed his surroundings. John stepped into the flat and began slowly pacing around, his wet shoes leaving clear footprints in the dusty floor. He let a finger glide across the table, leaving a streak. The place he stood in no longer felt like home to him, it felt more of a crime scene if anything. He paused as he faced the fireplace, raising his hand and rubbing his dusty finger with his thumb. He sighed and lowered his head.
"You probably wouldn't even notice this place had become such a mess."
He turned towards the kitchen and slowly paced over to the fridge, still looking around as if a guest in someone's home. The fridge was the only thing not covered in dust. John opened it and peered inside. It lay barren. No food, no drinks, no experiments
"No milk."
A small chuckle followed those words but there was a sense of sorrow behind it. He closed the fridge and made his way back towards the breakfast table. He looked out onto the street from the window. Through glass beaded with water he saw streets filled with grey and not much else. No cars drove by and no one appeared to be out for a stroll.
He glanced away from the window and over at the table. Newspapers were scattered about, all with headlines about the fall. He picked one up and began to read it, his face expressing sadness, which became anger the more he read.
"How could they cast you aside like that? After all you had done for them. How could they just turn on you so quickly?"
He tossed the paper aside sat down in the chair at the end of the table. He clasped his hands together and hunched over, staring at the ground.
"You were a hero, their hero...at least to me you were."
He let out a quiet sigh and looked up. His eyes caught a glimmer from a shiny black mass sticking out from under one of the papers on the table. He reached up and brushed the paper aside to reveal the black metallic gun Sherlock once used to drill holes in the wall out of boredom. He took the gun up in his hand, the cold steel sending a chill throughout his body. He stared at the gun and then over across the room. He saw the couch once used for brooding and above it a yellow smiley face painted on the wall, holes still shown from that day. He stared at that face, thinking about the holes and their origin. In his mind an image of Sherlock, bloody and lifeless stared back at him. He looked down at the floor again and silence fell over the flat. He raised the hand holding the gun and rested his palm to his forehead.
"Why…Why did you have to leave me? Why did you have to go…"
He began to quietly whimper as tears filled his eyes.
"WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE?"
His head snapped up and his eyes opened wide, his gaze burning tiny invisible holes into the smiley face across from him. He arm shot forward and the gun let out a loud roar as a bullet blazed out of the chamber and across the room. John sat there in that position, heart racing inside his chest as he breathed heavily. The tears in his eyes began to trickle down his as he let out three more rounds.
"Why did you have to die…"
He fell back into the chair and let his head fall into his hands, cupping at his eyes as he began to weep.
"Come now John."
The weep slowed and then came to a halt as silence once again fell over the flat.
"You didn't really think I had died now did you?"
John pulled his head slightly out of his hands, turning it slowly to look towards the door. Standing in the doorway was a tall, slender man in a heavy woven trench coat. His hair slightly shimmered in black curls and his eyes glowed blue. His cheekbones looked sharper than ever as he stood in the doorway with a disinterested look on his face.
"Sher…Sherlock?"
John looked as if he had seen a ghost. Sherlock stepped across the threshold, removing his black leather gloves finger by finger while looking over the flat.
"I must apologize for the entrance; there really is no good way to come back from the dead."
John still starred at him in shock as he made his way over to his chair by the fireplace. He sat down and wrapped his hands around the arms of the chair, slowly stroking them as he looked over at John.
"How have you been? I hope you've kept busy since my leave."
He looked away from John and gazed around the room some more, still rubbing at the arms of the chair.
"How have you been?"
John's voice was low but heavy, rage building behind each word.
"How have you been? You vanish out of my life for 8 months and all you have to say for yourself is "how have you been?""
John rose from his chair, fire burning in his eyes as he marched towards Sherlock.
"WHERE DO I EVEN BEGIN WITH THAT ONE? Well, let's see, oh yes. I've been miserable due to the account of my best friend COMMITING SUICIDE IN FRONT OF ME."
He spat in Sherlock's face and began to walk away. Sherlock sat and looked straight ahead, not showing any signs of reaction to John's words.
"Do you have any idea how many days I spent trying to figure out how you had done it? How you had perfectly faked your death because there was no way the great Sherlock Holmes could die so easily. I couldn't sleep because of you. Every time I closed my eyes all I saw was your lifeless face looking back at me. I could eat because of you. I had become so depressed I lost my appetite. I had to keep reminding myself to eat not because I was hungry, but because I hadn't in so many days that I might die if I go another without food in my system. And to top it all off…"
John stormed back over toward the fireplace and took the chair across from Sherlock.
"I've been suicidal at times. I didn't know how to live anymore without you in my life."
He pressed his palm; gun still in hand to his temple.
"I would sit, and load, and empty, and reload a revolver every damn week and to tell the truth, I don't know why I didn't pull the damn trigger."
He looked over at Sherlock who now starred down in his lap. John lowered the gun and leaned forward.
"So you tell me, how do you think I've been?"
The words were venomous and meant to sting but Sherlock showed no signs of it. He continued to stare into his lap, unmoved by anything John had said.
"I'm sorry John. I truly am. If there was any other way, if I could have told you, you must believe that I would."
"I'm sorry? That's it, you think after all you have put me through you can right it all with a simple I'm sorry."
"John …"
"Don't John me."
Sherlock rose from his chair and made way over to the yellow smile on the wall.
"I trusted you…Do you hear me? I trusted you and you betrayed me so you better start explaining yourself."
John's voice went slightly higher pitched at the word "better" and Sherlock glanced back at him. He raised and lowered his shoulders letting out a sigh and quietly began to speak.
"Whatever answer I give you won't satisfy, but if you must know, I did it for you. I had pulled you so far into my world that you could no longer live a normal life. I wanted you to be able to go out and live for a change. I wanted you to be able to start a relationship without my presence getting in the way. I was becoming your drug John, your crutch. I thought it was time you started to walk on your own again."
Silence fell once again but there was a clear sense of tension between the two men. Sherlock starred again at the wall as John starred in at the empty chair across from him in bewilderment of what he just heard.
"You did it, for me?"
John's voice rolled and the thunder began to build once more behind it.
"You thought that killing yourself was going to make my life better?"
A shot rang out across the flat as a bullet blazed past Sherlock's left cheek, grazing it and leaving a crimson streak across his cheek. John sat in the chair, head now sunk with his arm raised and pointed in Sherlock's direction.
"Well I didn't ask you for your help. I was doing just fine before you walked off that building for me. So how dare you think that what you did would better my life, how dare you think that what you did was in the right."
John rose from his chair and slowly walked towards Sherlock.
"I was miserable because of you."
His arm flung up and another shot rang out from the gun.
"I was lost because of you."
And gunfire echoed in the room once more.
"I wanted to die because of you."
John stopped and stood in the center of the room; he raised his arm and aimed the gun square at Sherlock's heart.
"And where were you when I was in all this pain. Where was my friend to comfort me…"
Silence fell as their eyes locked to each other. No emotion showed on Sherlock's face while John's became grim and morose. He lowered his head and looked down at his feet, the gun still point at Sherlock.
"WHERE WERE YOU?"
Bullets ripped across the room as John emptied what remained in the chamber. He dropped the gun once he heard the slide kick back empty and fell to his hand and knees as tears began to flood from his eyes and down his face.
"Where were you?"
He continued to sob and put his head in his hands once more. Arms inside the woven coat wrapped around his body from behind and Sherlock's head hovered next to left side of John's face as he spoke with eyes closed.
"I was always with John. In your heart; and in your mind…I will always be with you."
Mrs. Hudson came racing up the stairs and caught herself in the doorway of 221B Baker Street. She stood there in silence, looking at John who was hunched over on his knees weeping into his hands, all alone, in that empty house.