Sherlock Holmes

I went into the flat. I didn't storm in, I didn't wander. I just – went in.

Mrs Hudson's door was shut and the lights near the staircase were out. I went upstairs and opened the door.

I made sure to close the door and hang up my coat before I completely broke down, sliding to the ground with my hands on my head.

Hell. HELL. Oh my god, he was dead, dead, John was dead, he wasn't thinking, or breathing, he didn't care about me anymore, I was all alone and no-one understood, how could they, they didn't know what it was like, to feel so completely and utterly empty and alone…

Before I even saw it I realised one of John's jumpers was on the floor at my feet. Recoiling as if it were a venomous snake, I also spotted his gun on a table near a chair. A chair with his computer on it.

John's computer, John's jumpers, his gun, I was surrounded by John, and it was killing me. I sprang up feeling as if I were choking in the stifling John-ness in the room. Not bearing to look at it, I turned just to lock eyes on his jacket hanging next to my coat.

Dammit, I couldn't bear that, I couldn't bear it! He was everywhere. Everywhere I looked I was fenced in by something of his, not standing to go past or even near it.

Not able to take even one breath, too terrified to believe it was possible, I scrabbled for the door handle frozen above me, but just as I reached it I let go with a hopeless gasp and closed my eyes.

Got to get rid of it. Of everything. Scour the place of anything to do with John Watson. Scrape the place clean so it's like he never existed. Just – anything to stop me remembering so vividly. If there are no reminders, perhaps the memory will rip, tear and fade into a sepia photograph in the darkest scrapbook. Or simply burn away.

After eternity had come and whispered away, I got up and walked to a cupboard that had boxes in it, and all the while I looked straight forward.

First I stuffed in all the clothes of his I could see – jumpers, jackets, shoes next to the door, all I could find.

Then I grabbed his gun, his books and laptop, absolutely anything belonging to him.

Next I took out my two mobile phones, the pink one and my original one, and went to the inbox. Deleting the messages from him almost rhythmically.

Inbox: Message from John: Deleted

Inbox: Message from John: Deleted.

On and on and on. Until the last one, that was. I stared at it as if it were alien technology.

MESSAGE FROM JOHN

Will be back in ten minutes.

In a flurry of silence I merely turned the phone off and set it aside.

Finally I put the boxes in John's room as quickly as I could, found the key and locked the door, effectively shutting his death out from my life.

Which didn't explain why I still felt so deafeningly alone.

Trying to understand, I sat on the floor and felt like the world could come crashing down around me and I'd just watch the screams, sitting here.

Just trying to understand.

DI Lestrade

Lestrade hovered outside the door of 221B Baker Street. After what happened at the funeral he had realised that Sherlock was really a lot closer to John than he had thought, even though he had seen they were good friends even then.

Now he was contemplating whether or not to check up on Sherlock. He couldn't be having a good time. Perhaps he needed some company… Recently this building was becoming a place of dread for him (more so than before, and it had petrified him then), an omen of bad news.

Gingerly, he grabbed the door handle as if it was a grenade liable to explode at any moment, and twisted, not at all surprised to find it unlocked.

Inside it was dark, and he trudged slowly up the stairs.

He almost knocked on the door, but he suddenly heard a thump and a yell of frustration from within which made him drop his hand back into his pocket and walk down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson

Tea doesn't cure grief.

Sherlock Holmes

Go away. Leave me alone.

How can some people laugh when the leaves on trees are turning black?

How can some people look pitying when they can't sympathise?

How can the rest tell me it will be better eventually when the wound won't heal if it's in my mind?

No-one understands what this feels like, me included. I'm just sitting on a ledge, watching life go by and my shell going through it when there's no-one inside it.

Day One

It was ridiculously tempting. It looks so peaceful and welcoming. I had committed so many sins, why not add another to the list and fall prey to temptation? It would be –so easy.

I stared at the bottle in awe. However, it wasn't the bottle that interested me, but the contents.

Cocaine. The word just rolled off the tongue and tasted deliciously evil as it did. Couldn't this be my compensation for the broken edges of my life? Something to blend them together in my mind like a veil hiding it from view. Please, just a tiny dose. Just enough to numb the spikes.

Who was I even begging to? No, don't say that, I hate every answer.

Cocaine. Cooooocaine. It was terrible, it was disgusting, it was unhealthy… it was wonderful.

I picked up the bottle reverently.

This was it! The solution! It would use my fear to scare all my troubles away, taking that one with it.

I unscrewed the bottle top.

Will be back in ten minutes.

I hurled the bottle at the wall, where it put on an impersonation of the cup of coffee that had ended in the kitchen.

It was funny. I didn't laugh. Yes, the cocaine was the easy solution, but I always did things the hard way.

Day Two

'You Ok, mate?'

'I'm fine.'

'You sure – '

'I'm fine already!'

'Rough day?'

'You… you could say that.'

'Don't worry, we've all been there.'

'Have we.'

'What can I get you then?'

'What's the strongest drink you've got?'

'It'll be on the house.'

'Oh, and could you get two? I, um, have a friend with me?'

'I'm sure you do. You can come back for more, don't worry.'

'I don't –'

'Sorry?'

'Nothing.'

XXX

'Listen mate, I gotta boot you out now, we're closing. Sorry.'

'I underzztand…'

'Want some help? Here we go, mind the table, and out the door.'

'Whooda thunk it? Whooda thunk it?'

'Thu.. err, thought what, mate?'

'Th – Thanks.'

'All in a day's work.'

'I've gotta… gotta go now..'

'Hey – '

'Wha?'

'Be careful, mate. And I'm sorry for whatever happened.'

'I don talk bout that…. Don wanno.'

'I understand exactly what you mean.'

'Duz an… one underzztand?'

'Not really.'

'Bye.'

'Bye.'

Day Three

My world hurt, my life hurt, but most importantly: my head hurt.

Oh, what had I done? Flashes of remembrance flitted by, but I could fill in the gaps pretty easily. I had gone out and got ridiculously drunk at some pub and stumbled into the flat at some ungodly hour. I wondered if Mrs Hudson had heard me clomping about my room like an elephant.

I knew perfectly well what was happening, and that made it ten times worse to experience. I was sinking – if there was anywhere left to sink – and dying slowly. I was coming undone.

Yet I couldn't find the energy to care. Let me be.

What I didn't know was whether I had hit rock bottom yet. The case was interesting in a morbid, detached way. Was there anywhere left to go? It felt like any light had long since cried itself away.

Instead there were just the different shades of black singing a haunting tune that adorned my ears and spun round my head like a crown of thorns.

Of course, there was light coming in through the window, but that was empty light, not really there. To save it any trouble I pulled the blinds down.

Leave me to my world of indifferent shapes, that come and go at their own speed. To my numbers and figures, that never die. I was becoming victim to my thoughts and officially leaving reality, and to tell you the truth?

I welcomed it with open arms.

Paracetamol was a painkiller, but it only killed findable pain. Thoughts had no place, I could become lost in their ghosts, never to be seen again.

But before I got there I was still on my ledge, watching my outside layer go about the world in its self-destructive way.

Did it even matter? Did anything matter? How brilliant it would be not to care, not to give a single damn about anything. I wished I could go back to that. But it seems that when it leaves, it leaves for good.

Day Four

There was nothing of interest in the world at all. Nothing. Everything was meaningless and dull, so boring. Everyone rushed around, captive in their own tiny insignificant worlds, when it all came to nothing anyway. Why even bother? What if the entire human race just let go of their lives and took a look in the right mirror?

Insignificant conversations, pointless belongings, meaningless jobs, worthless buildings. This was what our world was crammed with, packing together to make the sun we revolved around.

I was sick of every bit of it.

Never would there be anything useful for me, for anyone. Even achieving success is futile because one day you'll die and just be a name on a stone and a memory that would eventually die too.

Perhaps everyone knew. Perhaps they just didn't let themselves think about it because it would make them feel… feel… well, feel like me.

And no-one would want that. It was like being the sole person carrying every single trouble on the world: every pain, every tear, every argument. Like no-one else could see me, or cared that one day I'd break and the trouble would come pouring out from every corner.

Why aren't I dead too? I deserve it. I deserve it because I've had to bear so much, I deserve it because I've been so bad.

How can anyone feel this lost, alone and misunderstood and not collapse? I marvelled at the fact my shell hadn't completely died yet as I observed it.

Harry Watson

Oh my god. It's all over. I seriously can't go on.

My brother. My brother. The only person who sympathised with me to at least some extent. It's like I was on a wild horse and he was the reins. Now the rope has gone and I'm out of control.

Clara left. I'm obviously not good enough. I was never good enough for anyone: not my parents, not my friends, not my partner. Look what's happened to my life. Everyone leaves me behind.

I couldn't bear to go to the funeral. The thought hurt too much.

Perhaps I should have gone. Perhaps by some miraculous method, the funeral would have changed me in a way that meant I wouldn't be sitting here alone with a bottle of vodka that was so nearly empty.

It nearly slipped out of my hands as I thought and I held it more firmly as I desperately drunk the last mouthful, feeling the black edges slip in, and then me slipping away from the bottle as the black became everything.

-SO MUCH DEPRESSION! Lol. It was kinda necessary for a chapter titled 'Depression' though. I have been at the computer typing for far too long, getting stuck on this chapter. Sorry if you're all sick of angst by now, it is kind of the focus of the story. Don't worry, things will get better. Thank you all for the reviews and the people who have favourited/alerted the story.