So...Not dead.

I'm trying to get back into writing and happened to find this in an old folder. This was the original idea for John and Lost. I'm not really sure why I scrapped it (in 2013), and then went back and added more (2015*) after posting the other version. *shrugs* Just not sure. Anyway it still sort of fits. I figured I'd add it here so you could give it a look-see though. I added more to it today** - I apologize for any typing errors, I've got a set of fake nails on that are a bit too long to type with easily.


Lost


Gone. Sherlock is gone. Sherlock. Gone. Gone. Gone.

The words circle round and round in his head. He thinks them. He says them. Yet they aren't quite real to him. They can't be real. He feels so empty though. So terribly lost.

He thinks occasionally of following him. It's a fleeting thought. He likes to believe that wherever Sherlock is he wouldn't like that. *Some days it's much harder to believe than others.

On yet other days he spends his time cursing Sherlock's name, his job, his life and usually goes right to the beginning and curses his very birth. It's strangely cathartic, or perhaps it's the crying and apologizing he always does afterward that's the cathartic bit of those days. It doesn't matter. Neither the curses nor apologies are heard anyway.

**He wonders some days if it was all worth it. Wonders if he had known in advance that the loss would be this painful, would he have still latched on and given Sherlock his all? He thinks, some days, that he should have walked away when the introductions were given on others he berates himself for even thinking of giving up on his madman of a friend. The dichotomy eats at him. That he can hate the man one day and weep over his loss the next.

He ponders vaguely the idea that his sanity was lost with Sherlock's life that day and that he should be considering that his mind is broken. It doesn't bother him in the slightest. That he is sure he has seen the man in the corner of his eye and to turn and find nothing but the bustle of the city surrounding him brings him comfort in an odd way. The man may well be lost as his body sits dead and rotting beneath the cold soil but his spirit lives in London still in stray thoughts.


And I'm stopping there because that's a lot more angst than I planned on...