we can be heroes

by concerned-burritos

Sherlock, two years after his fall, receives a phone call regarding the whereabouts of John Watson: he's missing. They say they've checked every place, but there's on in particular Sherlock is certain they've forgotten. - This is a POV story and each chapter is a different point of view. The majority of the story is their phone call. Questions? Let me know.

2. Chapter 2

The soul of John Watson died officially that day. His entire life was thrown off a rooftop in the middle of London, right before his eyes. Life after Sherlock's jump had been like one of those magic scarves that the clown pulls from his sleeve, and it would keep coming, and coming, and coming, and you would have to anticipate when it would end. It had to end sometime, right?

John had texted Sherlock every single day after his death, pleading with the man to come back, to stop being dead. He wanted his precious Sherlock, his favorite consulting detective, to be alive more than anything in the world. John missed the beautiful sounds of his violin echoing throughout the flat, the elegant music that could be heard from across the street. He missed the sarcastic remarks Sherlock would spew to him, some of which were not the nicest of comments to say to your flatmate. But, nonetheless, John was missing all of the different traits that made up Sherlock. He was so alone; he was so tired of being alone.

The death of his best friend had taken quite a toll on him. John had lost at least thirty-five pounds since the fall, but he was not too concerned about counting. It did not matter to him, he did not care what happened to him. 'The body is only transport' was a quote he often heard in the medical field. Besides lack of eating, John had also taken on a nasty drinking habit.

John would visit his sister Harriet, whom also was an alcoholic, at odd hours of the night when he had woken from the same old nightmare. It was no longer about the war he had endured in Afghanistan, it was the jump that had taken over his nightmares. The image of Sherlock's pale, lifeless body lying on the pavement, covered in blood, was the only thing he could see when he closed his eyes. Harriet would let him in, of course, no matter what time it was. How could she turn down her grieving brother? Once inside they would talk about the nightmare he awoken from and he would cry for hours; John cried even when it hurt to breathe, hurt to blink. His sister would then bring out the alcoholic beverages and together they would drink until sunrise.

John's addiction to alcohol had almost become as bad as his sister's. He would find himself having a bottle of beer at least three times, or more, each day. Sometimes he would go to the pub and take a few shots, if he was feeling incredulously horrid. He did most days.

John was sick of himself. He reeked of booze, sweat and tears. He was sick of this so-called life, this world he lived in without his consulting detective by his side. He thought back on all the times they shared together, but none of them could relight the flame that once burned inside his soul. sometimes the match would spark, ever so slightly, but it would never be lit. The thing would usually snap into two causing John to fall deeper into his depression.

His obsession.

He had done everything in his power to obtain any belongings that belonged to Sherlock. He had begged Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother, for anything: childhood photos, graduation photos, a few clothes, and that famous indigo scarf Sherlock wore ever so often. Anything that reminded John of Sherlock, he wanted it. when he wasn't drinking down his sorrows or vomiting up his feelings, he was at Angelo's. The first restaurant the two ever went together, whilst scoping out one of the suspects they were following. As much as it hurt him, being in the places they once used to go to together, it made him feel better; it made John remember the feelings he had in all these memory filled places.

Sometimes John would try to ask Lestrade for a case, but Greg never gave him any. He knew it was for John's own good. He tried helping him out by giving him a rehab clinic's card, and a list of therapists that could actually help him, but nothing would work. Greg knew damn well that John would never piece himself back together, not even with help.

John figured it was time to take his leave, the toll of losing Sherlock finally causing him to reach his, indescribably painful, breaking point. He thought that, maybe, if there was some sort of afterlife for those who checked themselves out, then maybe he would be reunited with his beloved detective. That was all he wanted: to be with Sherlock again, like old times. A faint smile spread across his lips as a small butterfly of hope fluttered around his decaying carcass.

John had it all planned out, he would just jump off of St. Bart's hospital like Sherlock had. Maybe that would land him in the same place Sherlock had ended up. Maybe he would have a better chance of finding him once he was dead, like Sherlock.

The taxi ride to the hospital was not an enjoyable one, it went by faster than he anticipated but he was eager to get to the top of the building to meet his fate. After paying the cab driver, John slide out of the car and hurried inside the building, avoiding everyone's gaze as he made his way to the stairs. His eyes stayed on the 'Roof Access' sign for a moment before he continued up his walk up the stairs, a beer bottle gripped tightly in his hand. He took long, deep, breaths as he neared the top, his thoughts all over the place. He felt ready to do this, he felt like he no longer had a choice. His life was crumbling beneath his feet and there was no rope or branch to hold onto. Once the last piece of ground were to cave in, he would find himself falling with it. He was now at the state in his life, where he was falling and he needed to find some sort of strip to land on.

Once on the rooftop, his heart started racing wildly. 'This is where he stood. This is where he threw me away.' John thought to himself as he took a hefty swig from the bottle in his hand. Without hesitation, he neared closer to the ledge of the roof, his eyes glancing down at the number of people driving past, or walking with their colleagues. John was by himself, he had no-one. He laughed to himself before putting the bottle down on the ground and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

,-
You better be waiting for me.
-JW
Message sent April 17, 2012
'-

John pressed the little blue send button and waited for the same message to be regurgitated back at him. When he did not receive the 'message failure' text, he blinked down at it with a dark frown. "Do not do this to me," he growled deeply, voice heavy with drink. He picked up the bottle, taking another swig, before putting it back down and sent another message.

Sherlock. If youre readng this
you better be waitg for me uyo
stupid jerk.
-JW
Message sent April 17, 2012
'-

He did not care about the spelling errors he made, he just wanted to jump already. He inhaled deeply, once more, before picking up the beer bottle and standing himself on the ledge. John felt the wind smack itself against his face, the cold air stinging against his dry, unshaven, skin. Taking one last swig from it, John then tossed the bottle over the edge. John watched it plummet down, down, down, until it hit the sidewalk and smashed into a million little shards of glass. The liquid formed the same sort of pattern Sherlock's brain had made as it cracked over the cement. The corner of John's mouth twitched upwards at the thought of being reunited with Sherlock once again.

John texted Sherlock once more.

,-
I loved you, you bastard.
-JW
Message sent April 17, 2012
'-