Hey everyone! I've been writing since I watched Reichenbach Fall, just finished it today. I'm sorry if it's not very good. Basically, it's an angsty two-shot. Might be a happy ending…guess you'll have to wait and see :) Warnings for a brief mention of self-harm, mental illness, swearing, and suicide. Thought I'd post before the episode tomorrow, how excited are you?! I'm so excited. Anyway, enjoy, I guess…
Doctor John Hamish Watson dragged a trembling hand through his short military cut hair. As he lowered the hand to his lap, he scoffed at himself. The tremors had started a few weeks after the fall. The life he lead with Sherlock had kept them at bay, the running, the danger, the thrill had almost permanently purged him of the ridiculous shaking. John Watson had lived off the stimulation of the chase, the gorgeous rush of adrenalin as he ran, feet pounding the pavement as he followed his best friends coat tails. His hands, strong and steady as he pulled the trigger to save the man he had known for just over a day, but who was undeniably his friend. And friend's didn't come easy to the man with supposed PTSD and a psychosomatic limp. A man who still had nightmares every night of his time in Afghanistan . But Sherlock had rid him of all that, his tremors and limp were gone within a day of meeting him. And now they were back. Worse than ever. Without Sherlock, without the danger and the thrill he was nothing. He had been reduced to a trembling shell of a man who could not walk without a cane and could not sleep without his dead best friends coat beside him. Pathetic, he scolded himself every night but could not bring himself to relinquish his hold on the lapel of one of Sherlock's most treasured possessions. The man was not who he once was, was not even who he was before Sherlock, he was the picture of grief and sorrow, could not pick up a cup without his hands sending it spilling everywhere.
With a low groan, the doctor pulled himself to his feet, eyes wandering around the flat. Mrs Hudson had come in a few days after the funeral, said they should tidy up some of his stuff. But he couldn't bring himself to. And so the experiments littering the dining table, the frozen body parts in the freezer, his violin remained in the same place they had been two months ago, slowly collecting dust, never to be touched by his fingers again. Because if all his stuff was here, in the same place then John could imagine that Sherlock would come back. That he was just out at The Yard or buying milk. That he was just outside the door and was going to come in complaining about Anderson and sporting a black eye or holding a tub of peanut butter ice cream and a new packet of nicotine patches instead of milk. He clung to the delusions most days, content to just sit in his armchair deluding himself day after day. Maybe it would have been easier to throw out all of Sherlock's stuff but truth be told, his stomach and chest clenched uncomfortably at the mere thought of ridding himself of Sherlock's presence, of Sherlock's belongings.
Some days he convinced himself that he could hear Sherlock's smooth baritone, telling him to hurry up John before Lestrade does something abominably stupid again or come on John, don't be so dull, I'm bored, accentuated with a petulant whine. He had left the house twice in the two months and both times he swore he could see a mop of raven-black hair, a swish of a long coat rounding the corner. But he was just lying to himself. His mind playing tricks again. His mind would simply not stop torturing him.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, John pulled their… No. His laptop over to him and opened it, typing in his password that Sherlock had long since figured out. He opened his blog and was drawn to the hit counter, it was the same as it had been the last time he had looked. Nobody cared about the adventures of the fake detective and his blogger. He let his eyes travel down the page, let the titles of his and Sherlock's cases fill him with a horrible pain in his chest and a stinging in his already bloodshot eyes. The Speckled Blonde, A scandal in Belgravia, The Hounds of Baskerville, The red-headed league, The man with the twisted lip, A study in pink. The last one sent a flood of agony through his leg and he slammed the lid down on his laptop before throwing it onto the sofa.
That was amazing.
You think so?
Of course it was. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.
That's not what people normally say.
What do people normally say?
Piss off.
He screwed his eyes tight, a thin trickle of liquid escaping his eyelid and finding its way down his cheek. Now that he had started remembering it would not stop. The memories, the words kept filling his mind.
That's fantastic!
Do you know you do that out loud?
Sorry I'll shut up.
No… It's fine.
The look on his face. Glee, proud. The praise had made his face come alive and though he had quickly shielded it, John had seen the thankfulness in his eyes.
Mrs Hudson took my skull.
So I'm basically filling in for your skull.
Relax. You're doing fine.
John dropped slowly to his knees, the tears coming harder and faster as he fought to regain control of his racing mind.
That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous things I've done.
You invaded Afghanistan.
A small sob ripped itself from the doctor's throat and his hands clenched reflexively as his breath whooshed through his throat. He couldn't seem to get enough air to his lungs. It scraped uselessly against in his throat and was pushed back out by his heaving breaths before it could reach his lungs.
And then suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "Sherlock!" He rasped, turning his bleary eyes to the figure beside him.
"No John, It's me." Lestrade said gruffly, it was his hand on John's shoulder. John's head drooped again and his need for air increased. He knew he should calm down before he passed out from asphyxiation.
"Donovan go into the kitchen and get me some water." He put his arm around John and rubbed circles into the shuddering doctor's back. "Come on John. In and out. In and out." He said soothingly.
"Jesus Christ he looks terrible." Donovan thrust the glass into Lestrade's hand. Lestrade shot her a look and turned back to John. He seemed past caring, his face flushed and sweaty, chest heaving and trembling, lips pale. John's eyes were squeezed shut, tears running down his gaunt cheeks. A strangled gasp brought Greg from his reverie. "Come on John." He repeated, continuing to rub his back. "In and hold. And out. You just keep that up John, you're doing great."
After a few more minutes, John began to calm down. His breathing began to slow and he slumped forward, exhausted. Lestrade brought the glass to his mouth and John reflexively swallowed, eyes shut. "Daft git hasn't been sleeping again." He pulled John's semi-conscious form over to the sofa and draped the afghan off the back of the chair over him. Lestrade had never seen somebody so broken, all the life was gone from him. The retired army doctor was nothing without his consulting detective.
Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, even Sally and Anderson had a sort of rota. John watch. Every day one or more of them would head over to 221B and stay with John for a few hours. They would drink tea, watch crap television, and force John to eat. They were the good days. Today was a bad day, panic attacks, broken sobbing. These were the days where John would collapse, be it from exhaustion, not eating or alcohol. Lestrade had cleared the house of all alcohol after that one night. He shuddered at the mere thought.
John of course knew what they were doing but he didn't have the energy or the heart to care anymore. Lestrade sank into John's armchair and ran a hand through his greying hair and looked towards Donovan. "You can head back to The Yard. I've got everything sorted here."
"Are your sure Sir?" Sally moved from one foot to the other.
"I'm sure Sal. Somebody's got to keep the troops in order."
With a thankful smile, Sally left and Lestrade was alone with the sleeping doctor. Speaking of, John's face looked haunted even in sleep. It reminded him of about six months back, after as it was called on John's blog 'The Hounds Of Baskerville'. Lestrade had called Sherlock down to a crime scene and of course, John had come with him. It had been a simple murder and Sherlock had figured it out within four minutes of looking around. He had been halfway through his proud ramblings and deductions when a dog barked from within the house. Lestrade had jumped but Sherlock had screamed, raw and terrified. He had dropped to his knees and covered his head with his arms. He had even cowered away from him as he approached, confused. Sherlock didn't do scared, didn't do emotions and yet here he was, trembling and gulping air like he couldn't get enough of it. The moment John had approached him, he calmed some as John whispered into his ear, face haunted as his flatmates scream ran round and round on a loop. When they had stood, Sherlock's pale face was wet with tears, his head bowed as John wrapped his fingers around his and walked silently away from the scene.
Sherlock had been utterly cheerful when he had a case, the petulance and the moping were gone, replaced in a blaze of undiluted glee. His face had always come alive with a childlike exuberance, eyes bright as he soaked up every detail and sorted them into his many rooms of his mind palace. Face flushed, grinning like a madman. Of course it was highly inappropriate to be beaming on the scene of a murder suicide but really John had no qualms. If this was what it took for the usually so sullen and brooding man to come alive, then so be it. Anything that kept the consulting detective away from cocaine or indulging in a packet of cigarettes and smoking them away like a professional chain smoker, was good in his point of view. John would take one look at the barely concealed exhilaration in his flatmates eyes and would feel downright joyful. He would watch the self-made detective bound from room to room, clue to clue and he would be entrapped. Sherlock's happiness, as stupid as it sounded, made him happy.
Nearly all of John's nightmares began in the same way. He and Sherlock would be at a crime scene, it wasn't familiar but the man beside him was so familiar and he had missed him so. Sherlock was in his element, prattling off list after list of deductions, face flushed, eyes far away and bright with mirth. They were nice, comforting. He had had these dreams every few months when Sherlock had been there. But there was a reason they were nightmares. They quickly turned into bloodshed and screaming. It would often end the same, suddenly they were both on the roof and Sherlock was jumping and John jumped after him, he woke before he hit the ground. However more often than not, it was the same as it had been that day. John was on the ground watching Sherlock with water-filled eyes. "Goodbye John." And he would jump, arms spread-eagled, eyes closed, coat flying behind him. And then it was over and his best friend was dead. He would wake up, voice hoarse, screaming for the man who had saved him from himself, all them months ago.
Sherlock's voice would float through his mind. 'Goodbye John." Raw and full of barely concealed emotion. It was slowly driving him insane.
Once again, John woke up shouting with his arms flailing to catch, to desperately reach his falling friend. It was too late. Always too late.
He slapped a hand over his mouth and breathed raggedly into his palm for a minute or so. He glanced over at the sleeping form of Lestrade and his lips twitched. Shoddy. Mycroft had expressively told everyone that under no circumstances, were they to leave him alone when they were there. John had heard them in the hallway when they thought he was out of it. Another mistake on their part.
The detective inspector murmured something but did not wake and John stood as best as he could.
How John wished for a dreamless sleep, even for the numbness that had accompanied him home from Afghanistan. Surely nothing would be better than this hell. He'd take emptiness over this pain, any day. He hated being weak, showing weakness, but this, Sherlock, it had ended him. He couldn't take the shit, the feelings, the brokenness. Sherlock couldn't come back, and John couldn't take it anymore. So really…there was only one course of action he could take.
It wasn't the first time that John had thought about suicide. In fact, it was right up there with Sherlock in his head. Everyone would think him guilty or weak, an associate of the fraud Sherlock Holmes. But he didn't care. He couldn't find it within him to really give a shit about anything except Sherlock. He certainly didn't care about himself.
He wanted to see Sherlock again, so much so that it was killing him with every passing day. So he would see his best friend again. He just had to die to do it.
Mycroft had searched the flat, had tried to hide it but the amount of times John had gone to his desk drawer to retrieve his gun only to remember it was gone…
The amount of times, he'd held a knife in his hands, the times he'd sliced up his skin in a vain attempt to stop the thoughts that were getting louder every day.
No, he had to end this now. Screw what anyone else thought. By tonight, he'd be dead. He'd be reunited with his friend.
When Lestrade left that night, John wasn't smiling, but he said goodbye, he shook Greg's hand and held the door open for him. He wished him goodnight and the DI left, thinking that maybe things were looking up. He had no idea that John planned on it being his last goodbye.
John smiled to himself as he shut the door, the first smile for months. He walked slowly around the flat, fingers trailing over test-tubes and Sherlock's precious skull. When he made his way back to the living room, he headed for his computer. An hour or so later, there were four letters typed and printed. One for Mycroft, one for Mrs Hudson, one for Lestrade and Sally and the last for Sherlock. Containing just one sentence; Sherlock, I'm coming.
He already knew how he was going. Some sleeping pills, courtesy of Ella. He'd get some sleep, finally.
It was so simple. One pill after another until the bottle was empty. The doctor offered himself another smile, getting comfortable on the sofa. His eyes flicked to the TV; An old rerun of Doctor Who. He watched the Ninth Doctor regenerate, the gold glow filling his view as it blurred, his eyelids fluttering shut.
Sherlock liked that episode, John thought absently. Used to quote it when he thought I wasn't looking.
A hoarse chuckle left his lips at the memory, the vision giving him the strength to swallow past the nausea. Soon, Sherlock, soon. And it would be, his pulse weakening, awareness fading. He could almost hear Sherlock's voice in his ear.
"John?!"
The doctor exhaled shakily, whispering three little words into the air, words that he had kept to himself his whole life.
I love you.
His hearing was fading, the sounds of the TARDIS disappearing into just one sound. Sherlock.
"John, John come on, wake up, don't do this!"
Why ever not? I'm home. Sherlock, I've missed you.
Sherlock was shouting his name, wrapping his arms around him and John smiled. It sure has been lonely without you, 'Lock.
"John, no!"
Everything faded to darkness.
Will John survive? Maybe ;) Hope you enjoyed, reviews are love!
-Sophie