John made the most of his time alone in the flat. He went and had another shower. As much as he was desperate to he now tried to avoid having one while Sherlock was in. He just felt too vulnerable. He slowly and calmly scrubbed every single part of his body, mechanically moving across. He stayed there transfixed by the slow and steady rhythm not caring when the hot water ran out. He carried on long enough for the ice cold water to numb his body. Once he'd finished he stood there, lost for a second. He then slowly stepped out onto the bathmat. He grabbed the towel and began to once again slowly towelling every part of his body. He carried on even though he had dried off following through the routine he had started. It was something to focus on. Soon his skin became raw and inflamed from the constant friction.
After getting dressed he slowly walked around the flat. He grabbed a can of soup and began to eat it out the tin, uncaring. He had been advised to avoid solid foods, a rule he was fast becoming sick of. The only time he looked up was when he heard the door creaking open downstairs.
He heard the creaking of the stairs but for a moment they stopped. Behind the door Sherlock tried to compose himself. He'd texted Lestrade and had got the response he'd expected. There were no DNA matches and someone above had told him the case was closed. The order came from far up there was nothing he could do. And now he had to tell John this.
Sherlock deeply breathed in before stepping into the doorway.
"John… John I've spoken to Lestrade, there are no DNA matches, the case has been closed. I'm sorry."
Sherlock waited for John's reaction. He just inhaled deeply and looked out to the window. He kept blinking.
"There's nothing you can do?"
Sherlock suddenly found it hard to swallow.
"No, I'm sorry."
Sherlock just watched a John put the tin on the table with more force than necessary and began hurriedly walking to his room. To Sherlock it was obvious he wanted to get away from him. He was the great detective, he'd solved cases and helped people from all over the world but he couldn't help John. He walked over to the kitchen and tried to immerse himself in his latest experiment.
John got into his room and made sure he shut the door behind him. He went to the wall opposite him and lightly banged his fists against the wall leaning into it. That was it. All the examinations, the questions and the tests for nothing. He should have just gone home had a long shower and forgotten about it. Now everyone knew. Everyone would sympathise. Everyone would pity. Everyone would constantly remind him of it. He couldn't deal with it. How was he meant to go out into London, to go out on cases with Sherlock knowing he's out there? Knowing he'd always be out there, always having the opportunity to do it again. What if he did? What if he did do it again? John tried to block out the feeling of being pushed into the ground, feeling a stranger's hot and heavy breathing down his neck. He slid down the wall, crouching next to it. He kept blinking.
He turned himself around and looked at the clock. He needed to take his medicine. He stood up and drifted over to his bedside table. He kept the medicine in his room, he didn't need it getting mixed up with all Sherlock's experiments. He opened the bottle and looked inside. It was too dark. He tipped the bottle up, the pills spilling onto the table in all directions rolling off onto the floor. He didn't want to live not if it meant it could happen again. He scooped a handful into his hand before raising it up to his lips.
Next thing he knew he had thrown the pills to the floor. He watched as they scattered, he didn't move until they'd all stopped. He then began to slowly pick them up putting them back into the bottle.
"I didn't do it, that's what matters," he told himself.
But he'd come so close he was scared.