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They were in their old apartment, cleaning up.
It was blown to apart, all their belongings they so carelessly arranged over the years destroyed.
John was sleep deprived, and Sherlock was bursting with energy, jumping around as he 'cleaned' the place.
To be honest, the place was never clean, tidy, or neat. It was always in this odd form of disorder that allowed them to find every single thing they needed. John had gotten used to Sherlock's habits over the years, and had learnt to remember the places of things. Like when Sherlock was particularly bored, he would put all his cigarettes in his Persian slipper. Or that if there was an unsolved (or boring) case, Sherlock would always stab it. John had to once stop him from stabbing his laptop in a fit of rage.
Whatever it was, there wasn't much furniture left to stab.
"Home sweet home!" Sherlock said out of the blue after about an hour of cleaning.
He then picked up the revolver and shot the wall.
Sometimes John was convinced that Sherlock was a five-year-old. John will have to ask Mycroft.
At the end of the day, they sat down on their chairs and reviewed their work. They had at least cleaned up the debris. They still had a lot of work to do.
This night was calmer.
The silence was deafening. Even Rosie was quiet. No sobbing or wailing. Nothing to distract John from his thoughts which he had kept at bay.
After Mary's death, John had begun hating aquariums or closed places with water. No, he wouldn't mind a beach, but wells brought back those days when he felt trapped in his own mind and drowning in self-hatred. Maybe Eurus knew. Yes, the game was for Sherlock, but that didn't mean that she couldn't add some ... context for John too. Every single stage of her little game had managed to remind him of all of his bad days. Days after the war when he felt alone, aimless and useless. Days after Sherlock's death when he realised that the very man who had brought him back to life was dead (as it turned out, it was all an elaborate lie, but still). Days after Mary's death when he missed the two people he loved the most, and watched the life he had tried so hard to hold together fall apart.
Every part of the game made him feel helpless or useless, trapped in a well or his own mind. Especially when Mycroft told Sherlock to shoot John because he was nothing. Of course, Mycroft was being kind in his own, snakelike way, it still managed to seep through the thick walls he had built around his mind. Because, that's how he felt when he was not around Sherlock. That is how he had felt for his whole life - useless. And when Mycroft said that he was nothing more that a scrap of ordinariness for Sherlock to dazzle, he believed it. Because that is how he had spent his whole life - either useless or helpless.
Also, it felt awful to have Sherlock save him when Sherlock wasn't even able to save himself. John had almost thought that Sherlock wouldn't come at all. That maybe Sherlock was too caught up in his game to care about the fate of his best friend.
But he did come. And that, he realised, was what the game was all about. Eurus was toying with Sherlock's friends because that was about the only thing that could get him to comply. And Eurus wanted to know why. John guessed she found out, that there was also this thing called affection when Sherlock showed compassion to her.
John stayed up all night, thinking. About everything. About the consequences of what happened few days before. About how to make things right. He was at a loss. Whenever he got sleepy, bones would jingle around his feet and he would wake up again. And the water was rising again, engulfing him. And he was screaming "SHERLOCK!" but it was too late to save any of them.
