Chapter 11
DISCLAIMER: I still do not possess any rights, no copyright infringement intended etc.
A/N: This chapter was hard. I had to write some John angst. The majority of this is before Sherlock's return. I know that it's been forever, I know I'm terrible, I'm really sorry for making you guys wait. But here you go, sink your teeth in! Oh and Happy Easter!
A/N 2: Sorry! This is not a new chapter, but rather an improved version of the last, I noticed some horrible mistakes, complete with a missing paragraph. Testament to how tired I was when I proof read. I am so unbelievably sorry guys. Love you lots! xxx
CAUTION: Suicidal thoughts and actions, self harming, angst. If you ever have suicidal urges please seek help. I hope that no one will be distressed by this chapter, if so you have my apologies.
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The black suit mocked him; it was so similar to something that the detective would have worn, back when he hadn't left the doctor alone, by himself in the harsh reality that was life without Sherlock Holmes. The suit would have been the same, except it was tailored exactly to John's measurements, but it was still shabby in comparison to the compilations of silk and satin that Sherlock had worn. In many ways, the comparison between the two suits was very much similar to the comparison of the two men, in John's eyes. He was always the lesser man, when it came to competing with the consulting detective no one would ever win. But the army doctor could not help but feel like no one ever paid him much mind, people's eyes would gloss over him and be stuck on the high cheekbones, curly black hair, and those shrewd eyes that missed nothing. His voice was never heard over the rich baritone medley that spilled from Sherlock's mouth, his words never recognised in the middle of the detective's deductions. John, himself, had become a shadow, hidden in the shadow of someone who would always be far greater than himself.
But now there was no one to hide behind.
The black suit was still hanging there, waiting for John Watson to make it into another average thing, much like the man himself.
The black suit wouldn't leave.
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It was the third time that week that John had rushed down in the middle of the night, convinced that there was music emanating from the living room. He could have sworn that he had heard the classical sound of Bach's Air on a G string, one of Sherlock's favourite pieces. But he only found the living room tragically empty. The violin was still in the corner on its stand, exactly where the consulting detective had left it. There was no sound at all, except the panting breaths that John was drawing in.
The empty flat had taken on a chill. John was shivering in the thin pyjamas he was clad in. But he didn't leave the living room. He couldn't force his feet to leave. He was clinging to the rapidly retreating hope that he had just missed Sherlock; that the consulting detective had just walked out of the door and would be back any second.
His bare feet were turning blue and the shivers had begun wracking his body. The silence of the room was deafening in John's ears. He could not take the silence any longer.
A solitary tear rolled down the army doctor's cheek.
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It was a year since John had been left alone, all by himself in the empty world. He had dreaded waking up on this day. John knew that it would mark the start of the end. A year of grieving was more than enough, and he was sure that if Harry or Mrs Hudson saw him like the emotional wreck he was inside, they would force him to go back to that joke of a therapist.
John blinked away the sleepiness that was clinging to him with some regret. He wished for nothing more than for this day to be over. He wanted to slip back into the realm of dreams where he could pretend, if only for a few more hours, that Sherlock was still with him. That John wasn't alone. But the harsh light that was filtering in from the window was banishing the last grasps of fatigue, shattering any hope of John falling asleep again.
He groaned aloud and rolled over to see what time it was. Unfortunately it was a perfectly adequate time to get up; there was no excuse for staying in bed any longer. John groaned again and pulled back the warm duvet, readying himself for the day ahead. He glanced around the room as he readied himself for the physical onslaught that would bombard his senses as soon as he removed his tired body from the mattress.
The room hadn't changed since the first night that John had stayed there. The floor was covered with a layer of grime, rubbish, and clothes. The dark wallpaper was stained with numerous amounts of unmentionable stains; the curtains were in a similar condition. It had lost the scent of the consulting detective long ago, but John could still imagine it clearly. The wishful aroma of silk, expensive cologne and dark chocolate filled his nostrils as he surveyed his living quarters. He sighed as he recognised the fact that this room would never smell like the enigmatic detective again.
John pulled his clothes on, his limbs on auto-pilot. He barely noticed the slide of cotton over his torso, or the feel of the woollen socks he had pulled on to his feet. The beige jumper he pulled over his head was a slight comfort, but not enough to make him motivated enough to remove himself from his room.
The doorway loomed ahead of John, beyond it laid an empty flat. Exactly the same as it had been for the past year. John couldn't bring himself to push through that final barrier. Once he had left his room there would be no return, he would have to face the reality that Sherlock wasn't there, and hadn't been for an entire year. He would have to face the forlorn truth that he had been abandoned. Left alone - in the harsh, desolate world.
He didn't want to face it.
He couldn't face it without Sherlock by his side. It scared John, the thought of the finality. Everyone had said that the first year was the worst. After the initial year John didn't get to use the excuse of his flatmate's death for not functioning. After today he would be expected to resume his place in the normalcy of society. He couldn't hide behind the doors of 221B, he couldn't hide behind the shadow that Sherlock left, and he couldn't hide behind his grief.
The army doctor was stood almost motionless in the middle of the room, holding back the tears that were threatening to spill from his eyes.
John pressed his fingers to his wrists, feeling the pulse that rhythmically throbbed just under a thin layer of skin. He felt the valleys that rose and fell across his flesh.
He pushed his fingers deeper into the scars that littered his wrists, revelling in the release that the pain brought. His mind's eye tried to create an image that was representative of the pain, but all it could manage was a shiny black colour that clouded his vision. It was so similar of Sherlock's hair colour that John pushed further into his wrists, trying to use the pain as an escape, trying to run back into the arms of the oblivion. But he could not do it, he couldn't run from the detective no matter how hard he tried.
He had started to cut his wrists as a way to have physical release from the pain. Crying just wasn't working any more. As soon as the funeral was over, and John had begun to be edged out of his reclusion- by none other than his not-house-keeper Mrs Hudson, John had found that the only way he could cope with the day was to cause his body agony. He would cut his wrists to make sure that he wasn't just dreaming that the world he lived in was the real deal. The constant smarting of the gashes John had carved into his skin, served to remind him that things weren't the same. The impact that the consulting detective had had on his life far outweighed any other event in his dull existence. Afghanistan, university, childhood; it all paled in comparison with what Sherlock had offered, and what John had willingly accepted. The continual highs of the Work, not to mention the thrill of day-to-day living with the madman himself, had given John cravings for the adrenaline which could no longer be sated. The combination of the adrenaline withdrawals and the depression left in the wake of Sherlock had given John the bleakest outlook on life. Not quite as much to end it – though he had been tempted, though the Browning did look incredibly alluring – so he was stuck in a limbo state, not able to continue but doing so anyway.
The cuts on his wrists from his latest escapade into the oblivion had only just started to knit themselves back together. The scabs had just closed over the hidden depths of flesh and veins, but that didn't stop John from tearing back into the newly-healed wounds.
The anniversary was going to be hard.
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John wasn't quite sure what he was doing on the rooftop of St Bart's. He could feel the whistling wind whirl around his body, chilling him through his coat.
Is this what Sherlock felt like as he stood up here? A sense of the inevitability creeping up on him. Readying himself for the one step that would take him away from everyone he loved? I wonder if he felt cold that day. Or if he could feel anything at all.
John had sidled closer to the edge of the roof, getting closer to the singular step that would bring an end to the suffering. He could feel Sherlock's presence up here with him. It almost felt like the great man himself was standing beside him, waiting for John to join him in the latest of his hair-brained schemes.
The army doctor closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of London that wafted up on the breeze. He could hear the wail of the police sirens and the drumming of the notorious London traffic. He could hear the muted buzz of the tourists that wandered around aimlessly. He could hear the cawing of the pigeons and ravens that refused under any circumstances to leave the capitol city.
For once in an entire year, Doctor John Hamish Watson felt at peace.
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John was sat in yet another therapists office, waiting for his next appointment. The similarities between all of the reception areas of every single psychiatrist amused John; he had begun a tally to see if they were actually identical. Small things please small minds, John. He smirked at himself.
Lestrade had found John on the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, poised at the edge of the hospital roof. The doctor had been leaning over the side, perilously close to toppling to his death. The D.I. had then insisted on therapy for John's apparent suicide and self-harming (it was impossible to hide the scars from the Detective Inspector when he had been pulling John away from his fall by the wrists). John had resisted initially but then intervention from Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Harry combined had been enough to make him concede to their wishes. Even if he did think that it was a load of bollocks. Lestrade had refused to let him go back to Lucy Leech - his original therapist, the one he had been assigned once he had returned from Afghanistan – as she had not picked up on the signs of depression and suicidal thoughts, and so had concurrently found him another.
John hadn't really got on with the first therapist. In fact, he hadn't really got on with any form of therapist. The proof was in the amount that he had powered through. He had already gone through four different therapists and John had a feeling that Greg was getting rather impatient with John's intolerance with the various psychiatrists. But it's not my fault that they're all stupid. I do not need this help really. And besides that last one deserved it, telling me that I should just accept that Sherlock was a fake. GOD! How dare he!
The last therapist had taken some soothing by Lestrade before the D.I. could convince him not to press charges against John after the rather impressive right hook that the army doctor had doled out. The idiotic therapist had gone as far to say that John had idolised the deceased detective before assuming that John had deluded himself into thinking that Sherlock was an omniscient being.
God that had been a disaster. Not an experience I'm really willing to repeat.
John was shaken out of his reverie by his name being called by the receptionist. As he walked into the treatment room all that was running through his head was, "BORED!"
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John woke from the dreams. Not dreams, memories. He was crying, the tears streaming down his cheeks, landing on the twisted sheets. He hadn't dreamt so deeply into the past since Sherlock's return, and it had shocked him how well he remembered the pain. Though he recognised the fact that the damage done by Sherlock's absence would never be healed, no matter how hard he may wish it to do so.
The tears continued to fall as John's torso was contorted by the great sobs that wracked his body. He tried his best to smother the sound in his pillow; John didn't want the detective to see him like this. He didn't want to show any weakness to the detective. He had to be strong for Sherlock, if nothing else. He could not let the detective down. He refused to.
The clinging remnants of the memories stuck with John, reluctant to leave him in peace. The emotions that had tormented him during Sherlock's absence had reappeared with considerable force and John found himself resenting the detective yet again.
God knows that he didn't want to feel that way, if anything John wanted nothing more than to forget the whole thing, and embrace Sherlock with open arms and an open heart.
John was so busy trying to muffle his distress that he didn't notice when the bedroom door opened. He did not notice when a lithe figure slipped across the room.
The army doctor jumped when Sherlock's arms wrapped around his heaving shoulders, the slim fingers brought unexpected comfort to John. He felt the cool touch of the consultant detective's skin on his own heated flesh, soothing it as Sherlock traced small circles with the tips of his fingers.
John sat up, pulling his face out of the pillow. He looked into Sherlock's grey eyes whilst simultaneously wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. The worry that filled Sherlock's eyes made John's effort to dry his face worthless, as the pure emotion that was hung in his grey irises made the tears flow ever harder.
The army doctor flung his arms around the consultant detective, grasping the back of the cotton pyjama top and scrunching it up in his fists. John had no other desire than to be close to the detective, to feel his heartbeat beneath his own, to feel the heat of his body that pulsed with life. The army doctor buried his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck, inhaling the scent he never thought he'd smell again.
They sat there for a long time, simply touching each other. Hugging and revelling in the knowledge that they still had one another. John was touched at how emotionally aware Sherlock was being and squeezed him ever closer.
Eventually the two pulled apart and studied each other's faces. John was shocked to see that Sherlock had red-rimmed eyes as well. Though the tear tracks had long since dried, the biological signs of tear shed were evident all over his face. It was a testament to how distressed John had been before Sherlock's interruption that the army doctor hadn't noticed.
John brought his hand around to Sherlock's face and cupped his cheek in his palm, his thumb stroked across the prominent cheekbone. The detective's eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into the contact. John hadn't meant anything but comfort but he found himself enjoying the trust that was evident on Sherlock's face. The tips of his fingers were hooked into some of the raven black curls as he continued to caress the razor sharp planes of Sherlock's features.
The army doctor had found himself leaning in closer to the detective, so close in fact that any further their foreheads would have been touching. John's eyelids found themselves drooping shut and he closed the distance between the two heads. The doctor's forehead brushed against the cranium of the detective.
The hum of contentment came from both mouths.
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A/N: Guys, please review. It really helps me. I need to know exactly what you're thinking. Otherwise, how the hell am I meant to get any better? I hope to update a.s.a.p. as it is the holidays! Wish me luck!