Credit goes to Jaeh because this is what happened when our chat turned into Sherlock roleplay. (Love her. Yes, that's an order.)
Her tumblr is: scribblesonapage
Insanity
John sat alone in 221B. He stared at the floor, he stared at the wall. He stared at everything. Only his eyes moved. He sat for hours and hours loosing track of time. Nothing felt the same any more.
/I should go outside. I should do my work. I should do a lot of things. I just sit here. /
/You're wasting away, John. Go outside and take a walk./
/IT'S YOUR FAULT FOR DYING AND NOT COMING BACK!/
/Wasting away without you Sherlock.../ John held back sobs from behind his soldiers face.
/I'm going to! Honest!/
/I just wonder if you feel as lonely without me... YOU BETTER DO YOU ANNOYING DICK. I'M SO FREAKING ALONE./
John clears his throat, shouting inside your own brain. A bit not good.
/I'm not going to wax poetic about my feelings! You know how I am with sentiment! ...but yes. Shut up./
/If I have to wait too long I may just be irreversibly insane when you get back./
/Oh now that would be a sight to see./
/Yeah but you'd get bored. Either way I'm never going to be the same./
/I won't protest that. Although, considering the handy ways of being untraceable these days... I should contact you before three years comes up. Don't you think?/
/Yeah. Because if you don't I'm going to believe I've finally gone insane completely when you just turn up... Developing schizophrenia and all that.../
/Lovely. PTSD and Schizophrenia? I'm going to have to ask Myke to get you to a facility./
/Well it's diagnosed as that, I don't think it's really that. It's just a bunch of the symptoms.../
/It probably isn't. You're just... It's not really in any spectrum, I think. I think, there's something wrong, but it isn't categorized. But that's fine. You need to change therapists, by the way. She annoys me./
/Meh... Not that you really care you're just in my head./
/That's nice, I'm berating your therapist in your head. And apparently I care, even if I'm in your head. That would mean that you're thinking like me. Scary, isn't it?/
/Not so much as you'd think. It's a nice reminder./
/I wish I was real, John. I wish I was real and not just in your head. I would make you feel better./
/Go away fake Sherlock you're not helping. You're just fictional. You don't hold any relevance... I shouldn't care... You shouldn't make me feel better.../
Alone in the flat John breaks down sobbing. He barely even notices because he's so wrapped up in his mind.
/You're crying. I'm not making you feel better./
/You make me pretend the real Sherlock is still alive, you give me hope. Hope is worse then nothing... when there shouldn't be hope. Death is final. Yet hope... it still makes you feel better. Even if it shouldn't. You have no reason to make me feel better. You're just my mind trying to make me go on living./
/He's alive. You believe he's alive. You've seen sign, you've seen him walk.. you've heard his voice on the phone, certain his note was a clue wishing that you had the presence of mind to record it - I'm alive, John. I am. You know I am./
/Visiting your grave is enough to remind me that you're not./
/I'm sorry./
/Sorry isn't good enough for leaving me like this. It's especially not good enough when it's coming from my own brain pretending to be you./
/What would you do if the real me comes back from wherever he is? I don't know what else to tell you. I'm not him. I only speak words that you provide me./
/I honestly don't know. But I'm insane enough talking to yo- myself about this. It gives my more hope. I shouldn't have that. I should just give it up. Move on. But I can't help it. I'll just accept I'm insane and live on with my hallucinations./
A chuckle escapes into the room but it's not John, not really. /No, you wouldn't do that. You're a doctor. The sense that something is wrong would create dissonance with acceptance. You should give it up, move on. Forget about Sherlock Holmes. He's a fake, didn't he - didn't I tell you? That's what people do. Pretend./
/But I know he wasn't a fake. I'll never believe that, it just makes it worse the idea his final act was lying to me./
Silence too over the room, out and inside of John's head. Panicking John broke it.
"Sherlock..."
/I'm not real, John./
/I know. But I can't give you up too... I can't just let you go./
/You have to move on, you know. That's what he would have wanted. What I would have wanted./
/I doubt he even thought about that./
/It's probably why I lied./
/Hmm... I'd like to believe that, but you can't say for sure because you're not him, you are me. And I am you. Stupid devil, corrupting my mind. Giving me hope./
/You're fighting with yourself again, then, Doctor Watson. You're doing it to yourself. Stop torturing yourself, John. Lay me to rest./
/The war inside me would never cease anyway. If it's not Sherlock, it's Afghan. You can't save everyone. My mental state just leaves me as one of the casualties./
/Lay everything to rest. Only you can do it. I believe in you, John Watson. Isn't that something you've always wanted to hear me say?/
/Yes it is. And something I'll never hear him say./
/I know. I'm sorry./
/Last thing he said was my name. "Goodbye, John." and that was it... Nothing else to say, but still so much.../
/He loved you. He cared, I think. I cared./
/No. I think he cared because I wanted him to. And you say he did because you're me. I probably falsely read the signs or something. I was never as brilliant as he was... Just a shadow./
/John, stop talking about yourself like that. It's not true. You were my conductor of light. You were brilliant, you were amazing, and you were my friend./
/You only said those things to get me to stop sulking./
/I really meant every word. But you wouldn't know that. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't, I'm not really Sherlock Holmes./
/No and the more I pretend, the more I go insane. I need to go to the grave. I need to remember./
/It would hurt you. A lot more./
/Better off hurt then with a lasting delusion that the man in my mind is my best friend./
/I'm sorry. I say sorry more than he does, don't I?/
/Too much more. Helps hit me with harsh reality though./
/Should I stop?/
/Probably. But that would only make me believe you're him more./
/I'll stop. For your sanity. Or to help you lose it more. I don't know. It is your call, John./
/Well, you are me and you don't know, I don't know either. But there you go again doing what my subconscious wants./
/I'm... He would say nothing./
/Oh I know he would the infuriating idiot.../
/I miss you. Oh, no, that sounds weird from me, doesn't it?/
/Yes. Very out of character for him, those things I wish he'd say that make me know you're me really./
/I think he does./
/Oh he might. But he'd never admit it. Too stubborn./
/It's Sherlock. What else do you expect?/
/Him to be too egotistical to jump off a roof. But I was wrong there. Suppose I didn't really know much about him, or the inner working of his mind./
/I wouldn't simply leave you. I had a valid reason./
/But that only proves my point, I knew him for real... but not all of him. He never told me the reason, probably because I couldn't help so he didn't deem me worthy. He only explained when he needed to... or to sound clever. Also, that's exactly what yo-he did. He left. Dead or not, he's gone. He left me./
There was silence in the room again and John decided it was time. He needed to go to the grave. He needed to say goodbye to Sherlock Holmes.
John tried to ignored his brain as he made his way slowly to the graveyard. He was alone in the cab this time, as always now-a-days. He shoved some notes at the driver, as uncaring about change as he was about his appearance recently. Stumbling out and into the field of graves he thought about Sherlock. How he wasn't alive any more. That he couldn't come back and John would do best to accept that and move on.
/So. My grave. Would it help drive me away?/
/Yes. Shut up. I need to feel sane and less... less... like I'm talking to my dead best friend./
/Send me away then./
/No. Why should I have to tell my own mind to go away? That's insane... I just.../
John hurried his way towards Sherlock's grave as fast as he could.
/Just go away. I don't need to feel like this any more. I... I need to accept he's gone and I can't do that with you here. No. Get out of my mind. Sherlock's dead. He's not coming back. I'm ready to move on... I have to be. It really happened, there's no use pretending otherwise./
/...John. Only you can silence me./
John shook his head.
/How can I do that when I don't even feel like you're part of me... I just know you are./
Hanging his head John approached where he knew Sherlock's grave was. He didn't look at it, not quite ready yet. He knew the names of the people who laid under the ground all around Sherlock's grave, he knew because of how often he averted his eyes... How often he couldn't believe Sherlock was gone and how he hated seeing the evidence to the contrary.
"...John."
/John. John. I'm sorry./
"John I'm sorry."
/Shut up. You're not here. You'll never be here again. Leave me alone to grieve you./
"It's been three months to the date. It is rather odd to see your own grave and to watch friends mourn."
/I said shut up! Just shut up! Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. You're not watching anyway. You can't see me, just what I see./
"John?" Sherlock took a tentative step, the crisp grass crunching under the sole of his shoe. "I really do apologise."
"I thought you said you'd stop apologising for my sanity..." John muttered to himself, closing his eyes and rubbing harshly against his forehead.
"I thought you'd want me to say it more because I don't say it enough."
/Pretty sure this falls into the or help me loose it more category. Now leave and if you don't I'll just ignore you until you fade into background noise./
John sighs, squaring his shoulders and glancing up towards the grave. Seeing Sherlock's name on the stone only makes his resolve more solid. He'll move on, for Sherlock (because no matter what he told himself he truly did believe Sherlock's lie had been so he would get over this).
Sherlock's phone chimed, and he closed his eyes. That meant his informant found something important. He did not want to leave. He wanted to stay, go back to 221B and play his violin, shoot the wall, and infuriate Mrs. Hudson. He wanted to leave an eyeball in the jam to annoy John, and to get him some homemade jam afterwards. He exhaled. Sentiment. He never did like sentiment. But it was there. He wanted to come home. "I can't stay longer. I am sorry. I don't know when I'll see you next." He placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Thank you for believing in me, John." And he ran, darting behind trees. He got on his motorbike and drove away, not knowing when he will come back. Or if he will come back.
John felt the hand on his shoulder and whipped round just in time to see coat tails disappearing between the trees.
/I've done it, I've actually gone insane. I'm tricking myself that I'm seeing you now. You. Are. Not. Here. You'll never be here again./
John closed his eyes taking a deep breath. Once he opened them his soldiers mask had returned and he pivoted on the spot beginning to walk away from the grave just was he heard a engine start somewhere in the streets near by.
There was silence in John's mind for a while as he walked, he relished in it for a moment until...
/That wasn't me. You know it wasn't me./
John ignored his head and walked back towards the main road.
/Get a grip of yourself John, seriously. This is over, you have to act sane now. That wasn't him, stop being irrational. He'd make fun of you of even suggesting you'd seen a dead man in a graveyard. Time to move on./
/John, who was that?/
John squared his jaw.
/No, no, don't even think a reply... clear my thoughts... clear your thoughts... It was no-one...Blank thoughts... Blank thoughts... Oh damn.../
John could of punched himself. He really did want to get his thoughts in check so he'd be sane again. He decided to walk home, maybe doing something out of the ordinary would help... maybe the exercise would help him... and the fresh air... or something.