Part 3 - John
John walked on without looking where he went. He'd wanted to go to the bakery but had discovered that he had left his wallet at home. The thought about his own stupidity/thoughtlessness/whatever made his eyes sting. Sherlock would have noticed by now and would have a field day about it. Stupid John, not able to even take care of himself without the Mighty Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes doing the thinking for him. Well, the MCDSH could go fuck himself in the dark.
John stuffed his fists deeper into his pockets. No phone. Fuck. Forgot that, too. Double fuck.
But fuck the wallet, he wasn't hungry anymore. Who needed food anyway? Food was for losers. The MCDSH didn't need food, so why should he, the NSMDJW (Not So Mighty Doctor John Watson)?
John kicked at a pebble that was lying conveniently in front of his foot and stubbed his toe AGAIN on the edge of a cobblestone hiding behind it.
That was it. FUCK THE WORLD!
John felt the sting in his eyes become more prominent and decided then and there not to cry, not to cry, not in front of all these people who wouldn't give a fucking damn, but nonetheless, he wouldn't cry.
God, he was so pathetic. Meeting that mad man that was Sherlock Holmes he had had nothing better to do but to FALL for him, hard and fast. It had happened when Sherlock came back for him and had asked him along on that first case and he had answered 'Oh God, yes' and it hadn't been because of the thrill of the case, because of the danger but because he could spend more time with HIM.
He had soon found out that Sherlock hadn't fallen for him too, not that he had expected that, but that the man only knew two emotions at all: thrilled (about having a case) and bored (about not having a case). So he had stomped on his heart and enjoyed being able to just be in the presence of the detective. It had irked him that Sherlock almost immediately had begun to order him around, but as a good little soldier, he hadn't complained. And then, when it was already too late, he had started to protest, but after Sherlock had ignored that, he had started to obey again. But it had begun to grate on his nerves. He felt taken for granted. He himself was thankful for being allowed to stand in the shadow of the master, but getting not the slightest thanks in return for what he did for the man (washing, cleaning, making sure Sherlock didn't crumble from low blood-sugar, stuff like that) made him feel... bitter. Un-loved. Just barely tolerated. And that he felt grateful for being 'just tolerated' made him feel a self-hatred he'd not though he had been capable of. He was worth something. He was a soldier, he had the medals to prove his worth, but he still felt... not-enough. He knew that his low self-esteem was bullshit, but he just couldn't help himself. He was wallowing in self-pity and that made his self-hatred only worse.
The sting in his eyes was barley tolerable now and John refused to blink because that surely would make the first tear spill and THAT would get the floodgates to open, so he looked around for someplace to hide from the world and what he found fit his need perfectly. A blue, fifties-style police box. And he was lucky, too, the first time today, for it wasn't locked. So he opened the door, slipped inside, shut the door behind him, sank to the ground and covered his face with his hands, letting the tears come.
