The sun positioned itself just above the horizon, casting an orange glow across London. Humid summer night air clung to the skin of every exposed pedestrian. John Watson made his way slowly down the concrete blocks of sidewalk with sticky mist hanging over him like a blanket. Just beyond the corner he could smell the burning air. Crackling wood shouted into his ears, calling him closer.
A rather large bonfire was being held a safe distance behind St. Bart's Hospital. The occasion? To remember the late and great Sherlock Holmes. It had been a year since his fall off of the hospital roof. Although to John and the others time was altered. To some it seemed as though he had been gone but days, to the others his loss dragged on longer.
John had held an inter conflict for days proir to the occasion. Even now as he was greated by familiar faces he seemed so lost and alone. He would much rather have stayed home, locked in his bedroom with a blade and a bottle of whiskey. But he covered the battle scars with a light jacket, his excuse that it prevented the bugs from nipping at his bare skin. Nobody questioned farther.
The atmosphere fell short upon his arrival. Death had taken Sherlock without warning, and they all knew John was the most impacted. Yes, Mrs. Hudson had accquired acute depression, Lestrade was slowly becoming an alcoholic, and Mycroft attended therapy, but John, he was no longer himself. With the others their major traits had been unchanged and appeared from time to time. Not with John. He became quiet, not talking to anyone unless necessary. He rarely left his flat and when he did it was to buy food which he hardly ever ate. His weight had dropped drastically and his suicidal thoughts were more clear to others than himself. Still it was rare to hear a comforting remark directed towards him.
He was still in control of himself. The gun kept under his bed was loaded but remained unused. On occasion he would let his mind go with a drink, or two, or three. But it was the sober cuts and thoughts that hurt the most. Yet sober was what he preferred. After all he didn't want to forget Sherlock, nor did he want to feel better. To him pain was what reassured him that he was alive, even if Sherlock wasn't.
Surrounding the large fire were overturned logs. John took a seat on the one farthest from the music and the people. The fire blazed with beauty and life. Fire was always facinating to him, the sight, the smell, the sound, it was a treat for his senses. Tonight, however, it failed to thrill him. Rather it occurred to John that the sight, the smell, the sound, were all symptoms of the dying logs beneath and that a fire never truly lives, it only dies.
Part of John expected Sherlock to take a seat behind him and start to ramble on with useless facts about ash. He would prefer that to the solitude. Still in his mind he saw Sherlock every so often. A man in the market, a patient in the hall, a passerby on the street. They would dissapear before he had a chance to look again. Even I'm the fire he could see the face of his friend.
It was times like this he wished fantasy was real. Such as the man within the fireplace at Hogwarts, a magic fairy spell, an immortal god, true loves kiss, or the fox that faked his death. Oh yes if that last one was true John would be pissed, yet greatful, releived, happy. Three emotions he hadn't felt in a year. A year, that was all it had been. It had took only that long for Johns life to go from good to shattered pieces that barely resembled bad.
A gentle hand came to rest on Johns shoulder. He paid no attention to detective inspector Greg Lestrade as he proceeded to sit on the log beside him. "Everything alright?" He asked with the faint smell of alcohol on his breath.
John remained enticed with the flames. Lestrades words flew over his head as though they had never been spoken. Neither of the men objected the silence any farther. The simple presence of other human beings around reminded them that they were both broken yet functioning.
Lestrade knew that John was unstable. He would never let him know, but on occasion he would pace in front of 221B, silently looking for any sign of life in the flat. John had meant so much to Sherlock, and it was very clear Sherlock may have meant more to him than he thought. Lestrade had worked with Sherlock for years, and John had only for a few, yet the impression left by the sociopath was outstanding.
"Care to Dance?" Molly held out her hand to Greg. "It's my favorite song." In the distance the beats of a clearly remixed song was playing. Lestrade couldn't resist her offering and graciously took her hand.
As they moved out of beat with the music Molly's head was spinning. She herself was under the influence of various drugs. She would rather forget Sherlock than deal with the pain of loosing him. Greg danced with drunken glory, and Molly with forced happiness.
John watched them both slowly loose their mind. The old saying that time will heal seemed less and less true. To the three of them the pain just got more real. True the tears had faded for the most part, but so had their minds. It baffled him how one mans death could cause the destruction of so many people. Before Sherlock he had encountered many deaths and losses, none seemed to make him even flinch. But Sherlock was different. He couldn't tell why, and he may never know, but the truth was there, Sherlock had changed him.
The song faded out and Molly made her way back to the crowd on the other side of the fire, leaving the two men alone once again.
"I know you won't talk." Lestrade began as he sat facing the fire. "But a word would be nice."
Johns gaze remained directly in the flames as his mouth hung slightly open. "Fine." The word that slipped out was barely audible.
A smile wound itself around Lestrades face. "Funny." The smile faded as quick as it came. "John, are you alright being alone in that flat?"
He took a long breath before speaking. "I'm not alone." He reassured him.
"Mrs. Hudson can barely count as company these days."
Another long pause. "I don't need company."
"A basic human need is company. You can't be alone."
"I'm no more alone than you are." John was done with this conversation. The way his sentance struck like a whip was clear he was no longer eager to continue it.
The fire was now becoming victim to the wind, the flames had begun to fail and swoop close to the grass below. The guest at this so called memorial began to disperse without a word. Some were drunk, some were high, and yet few were sober in thought. Slowly those who were sober also parted, leaving John with a tiny blaze that was left.
He climbed off the log and onto the ground beside the fire. Gently he raised his sleeves to reveal the deep gouges of crimson red art that he had painted across his arm. The flames warmed his cuts and John watched the fire until his eyes could no longer remain ajar.