Hello Hello Hello!

Another quick update, yeah, go me. Though I did write this with my cat on my lap, which I can't decide is good or bad. Though right now I can't feel my legs.

Okay, so I know a lot of you have seen the complete sign and thought 'whaaaaaaaat you doing girrrrrrrrrrllllllllll?' but let me explain.

THIS IS NOT THE END!

I'm really conscious of how big the chapter/word count is getting, and there is still so much to write, so I have decided to split this fic into two parts. This chapter is really short, but I wanted to make a definite end to part one.

The sequel will be called 'Closer. Still' and will be up soon.

I really, really, really (really) hope you guys read it. In the meantime please leave me a review and let me know what this chapter is like!

I love you all with the power of a billion flappy coats and if i could i would come round and make you all a big cup of tea.

mmmmmm, tea.

See you all soon!

MB

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hands On Education.

Chapter 26

The Lightning Strike

It had been a whole month since John had last seen Sherlock.

Or rather it had been thirty one days since John had last seen Sherlock.

Or rather it had been thirty one days, 744 hours, 44640 minutes and 2678400 seconds since John had last seen Sherlock. Since he had seen that car disappear out of sight.

Every day seemed to go on forever, every hour he lived in the hollow blackness of his new life, every minute he sat staring into nothing and every second caused an unspeakable anguish to burn through his system.

He had gone through everything over and over again. From first meeting Sherlock right up to watching Mycroft drive away. He remembered each detail, all the things they talked about, all the things they did. Went over every tiny thing in his mind, from the way Sherlock walked to the way his curls felt when we ran them through his fingers. From the way he smiled when he thought John wasn't looking to how he looked when deep in thought. He remembered it all, he clutched to each memory, desperately hoping that if he went over it again and again he would never forget. That if he really concentrated he could replay their entire relationship as if it was on tape.

He let everything settle in his mind, all the regrets and anger and the hurt. He let it scratch and itch and just take over. Now he was apart, now it was all over and he was on the outside looking in he could see everything so clearly. Hindsight was of course, 20/20. He had thought that time would heal his wounds, that if he waited and waited then his pain would numb. But right now, despite an entire month having passed between then and now, the pain was still fierce. He still felt his eyes prick with tears whenever he thought of Sherlock.

Now, after all those hours of thinking over and over again he could only draw one conclusion.

He had made a huge mistake.

Why couldn't he, just for once in his life, just forget about what was right, about what he was supposed to do, and just gone after what he wanted. Sherlock had been right, they would have been so good together, they had been good together, if only he had just let go of everyone else and just run. Sherlock had even said it himself, all that time ago he had told them they should just go. Why hadn't he? Why hadn't he had just packed his bags and left? He wished he could just go back in time and shake himself, tell himself that he had the most amazing person, that love like this only came once in a lifetime that he should hold on and to not let go. That the pain of loosing Sherlock was too much. He wished he could tell his old self all of it.

He wanted Sherlock back, he wanted Sherlock back so badly it hurt. He just wanted him to come back to Bakerford, that he would just walk through the door and right back into his arms. All would be forgotten and Sherlock and he would just carry right on with their lives, together. He had imagined it all in his mind, he imagined Sherlock coming home, his smell, the taste of him on his lips. He imagined his cheekbones and sharp eyes that never missed anything. How could he even have thought for one second that he could live without that? Without him? He wished with all his heart that Sherlock would just walk right back into his life.

He was an idiot. A great big massive idiot.

He deserved it though, he hadn't fought for Sherlock. He hadn't fought for what he wanted, he had just let Sherlock out of his life as easy as water running through his fingers, and that's why he didn't deserve him back. Sherlock wouldn't want him now anyway, and why would he? He had treated him so badly, he could see that now. It was sick, the way he would tell Sherlock how much he loved him then he would go right back to Sarah.

How the hell had Sherlock put up with it? How could he have treated someone who had done nothing but love him in so badly?

Now he was alone, just like he should be. Trapped in a town he hated because he hadn't just taken the risk and followed his heart. There was nothing here for him now, but he had made his choice. Now he had to deal with the consequences. All he could do was live with heartbreak and in the meantime try and fix things with Sarah. She was all he had left, he had made his choice and chosen Sarah so now he had to mend their marriage. He couldn't just sit here and mope around over a love he had pushed away. If he could fix things and make them exactly as they were when they first married then maybe things would work out for them. Maybe everything would turn out okay in the end.

Sarah seemed to know the answer to how to make everything better. Babies. Suddenly Sarah had become obsessed. Actually obsessed, whenever they were out he caught her staring longingly at mums with pushchairs, baby catalogues and other paraphernalia began to seep into his house. She wanted a kid, she said it would fix them, 'a way to put all this behind us John'. It made him feel sick. He liked children, he was good with them, he had a way of getting on their level and his friends and family members kids always seemed to cling to him whenever he was round. Yet he couldn't have one with Sarah, he couldn't bring a child into the world with the mess that was all around him. He wanted to put it off, to wait until things were right between them then maybe procreate. They were a young couple, they had so much time yet Sarah seemed so desperate. She seemed to be constantly talking about children, baby names, birthing plans, whether she would breastfeed or bottle, she watched childcare programmes on TV, anything she could get her hands on. He just wanted it to stop, he would put it off and put it off for as long as he could. He wanted to put his hands over his ears and screw his eyes shut and shut it all out. It felt like white noise taking over him.

But it wasn't just Sarah and kids, it was him. It was his desperate need to have Sherlock back. Nothing would be right without him, but he couldn't have him, it was lost. Sherlock was gone. It was just too late to go back.

He was nothing now.

He was absolutely nothing.

Sherlock glanced around, dumping the last box onto the kitchen floor.

'What are these?' Mycroft balked holding up a jar.

'Eyeballs, put them down' Mycroft quickly put the jar down on the kitchen counter when he found on the unsavoury nature of the substance.

'I'm going to pop out to tesco and get you some things.'

Sherlock shrugged, he hoped Mycroft would buy him an industrial size box of teabags, the rest he wasn't too fused about. He allowed Mycroft to buy him a kitchen set, pots and pans and such, but he had no intention of cooking.

What he was really grateful or though, was the brand new laptop that he was still in the box. He had even said thank you. Mycroft had yet to recover from the shock.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't being forced into grotty student halls. Mycroft had given him the keys to his old flat. He had two days to settle in, get everything sorted and then lectures would start on Monday. The flat was okay, a little on the small side but it was in a prime location in the middle of Oxford. It would do, and, despite actually belonging to Mycroft. It was his. A home all of his own. The flat was made up of one large room, with the kitchen, table and living room, then at the end was a door which led to the bedroom and en-suit.

He quickly started making the space his own. He set up his microscope, test tubes and Bunsen burner on the table. Then hung up an old poster of the periodic table on a wall. While he unpacked Mycroft came home and unpacked whatever he had bought.

Together they set up Sherlock's new flat, they talked awkwardly as they made Sherlock's bed.

'You are going to be okay, you do know that?'

Sherlock shrugged again. 'if you say so.'

Mycroft took him out to some restaurant later that day. Then it was back to the flat and time to say goodbye.

'Good luck' Mycroft gave him a rather clumsy hug.

He returned to his new flat, though it didn't feel like he owned this, that it was his space. All his things were around him but he didn't feel like he belonged to him. He still felt on-edge as he waited to settle in.

Very carefully he took out a duffel bag he had kept close by all day. Sitting on the bed he unzipped it and took out an old Moroccan case he had found in a shop in Camden.

He had been experimenting with injecting for the past few weeks, quickly finding that snorting it was just enough. Charlie had given him enough to last the week, then he was on his own. Though he doubted he would have trouble finding a source. He had already prepared himself his desired 7% solution the night before for this very moment, he knew it would be a long day, and didn't want to faff about preparing the drug. He would want to just inject and go.

The window of his new bedroom was large, giving him a wonderful view of the city. He glanced at the spires as he wrapped a belt around his arm. He waited for the line of blue to rise out of the white. He felt bad doing it, attacking the pale white. The skin looked so innocent and he was defiling it. Spoiling it with the sharp syringe. It was already marred with nicks from previous injections.

Flicking the syringe he slid the point into the skin and fell into the abyss. Straight away he felt his brain quickening and forgetting all his problems. He could think, and focus on what he wanted. His brain was no longer fuzzy and clouded over with John.

He collapsed back onto the bed. Riding out the high. He wondered what John would make of him he could see him now, a worthless junkie. He had seen what addiction had done to his father and now he was carrying on the cycle. Luckily his mother had died before seeing the depravity his life had sunk. A homosexual drug addict. He could feel her turning in her grave.

John would hate him if he could see him, drugged out of his mind. Not that it mattered, John hated him. Why else would he break up with him? Sending him away to London so he could forget about him, the dirty little secret he regretted and now wanted to forget all about. He went back to Sarah, his wife, his beautiful smart funny wife. Everything he wasn't. Why would anyone want him anyway? It was miraculous John had even given him a second look. Lying here high and forgotten was all he was worth.

He imagined John and Sarah, living their happy lives far away from him. He pictured them sitting on the sofa watching TV, making dinner and drinking wine, kissing and cuddling. All the things he wished he could do.

He wished John would just walk through the door and into his arms. He wished he could just go back to when John was his and everything was right with the world.

Nothing would be right without him, but he couldn't have him, it was lost. John was gone. It was just too late to go back.

He was nothing now.

He was absolutely nothing.

First chapter of 'Closer. Still' will be up soon. Please let me know what you think of this chap. :)