Sorry for taking so long, so this chapter isn't as good as some of my previous ones but hopefully now that its over, the rest will follow with ease.
Enjoy.
John wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at the floor, trying to control his emotions. It felt like hours but he knew that was unlikely. He didn't know how to feel about everything he had just heard. It was eating away at his heart. He was still furious at Sherlock's deceit and worried for his wellbeing. Would he always be broken? Could he be repaired? These thoughts ran through his mind, circling it, in a seemingly never ending torrent of dread, worry and anger. The doctor didn't even notice his Mary, pulling him back to the chair he had left ten minutes earlier when he'd decided to start pacing across the room. She placed the small black ball of fur in his lap and wrapped her arm around his shoulder.
"Are you alright?" Mary asked, more than a touch of concern in her voice. Poor John, this was all so new to him, and to her in a way. It broke her heart thinking of how Sherlock must have suffered alone for so long. How he suffered even now...
"I'm fine." I'm scared shitless Mary.
Milton began to purr and climb John's torso until he was settled between his shoulder and his chest. John stroked him absentmindedly and tried to pull himself together. Mycroft pursed his lips and sighed. This was clearly too much information too soon. He'd thought as much. But John had been so insistent and Mycroft had felt better after getting those memories off his chest. He stood and opened the door, alerting one of his men, whom he instructed to get a car ready to take John and Mary home.
"No Mycroft, I'm alright."
"You have had a shock tonight, and another just now. Go home and have a good's night sleep. If you want to know more, call me in the morning." Mary nodded her agreement with Mycroft, gently encouraging John to stand, whilst trying to untangle a sleeping kitten off of his clothes.
"Come on dear, let's go home. Sleep will do you good." It won't Mary. I know it won't...
John gave in and nodded his goodbye to Mycroft and pulled Mary close to him, heading for the door. Before he exited, he turned back to look at the elder Holmes brother.
"Will he get better?"
"I don't know John. I do hope so."
I hope so too.
The ride home was quiet, the car's two occupants in the back seat, huddled together. Not just for warmth. But for comfort as well. When the car arrived at their flat, they left the vehicle quickly, hurrying inside. Wanting the safety and comfort of home to make them feel better. It didn't help. Mary made John a warm cup of his favourite tea and served it with a small plate of jammy dodgers.
By the time both were finished, John was barely awake. He didn't bother changing into his pyjamas, instead just removing his jacket and shoes before crawling into bed, close to Mary. It took him a few hours to get to sleep. Part of him wanted to forget this night had ever happened. The other half held onto the information that Sherlock was alive, as if it were his lifeline. When he finally slipped into the arms of Morpheus, he tossed and turned all throughout the night and morning. His dreams tormenting him, over and over again.
John opened a door hesitantly, behind it a nervous individual that he knew quite well. He raised his fist, punching him in the face, black curls flying. He caught the body in his arms and raised his fist again. And again. Until his friend's face was a bloody mess.
"John" He whispered.
"No." Joh replied and pushed Sherlock away. He turned and headed down a dark, pitch black, corridor.
"John! Please..."
But begging had no impact on John's heart. He ripped it from his chest, it was frozen solid. He threw it at Sherlock's feet.
"Moriarty was wrong. He didn't burn it. He froze it. You froze it. Leave me Sherlock." And he turned and left, ignoring the weeping that followed him.
"John... but you're my friend...John?" The door slammed in the detectives face. Tears poured down his pale cheeks and he clutched the heart against his own. Willing it to thaw.
"Please..." He held it tightly, like a child might hold a toy when he was frightened. Sherlock cradled the frozen heart, stood and walked away.
"I'm sorry John..."
The stairs went on forever into the nothingness. Into a pale purple void. Photos with faceless people hung on invisible walls, stars shone from above. John continued his journey. He wanted to go faster, but his legs refused to obey. But he reached the top quicker than he anticipated. In front of him was a blue door. He turned the knob warily, worried about what he may find inside.
It was 221b.
No one seemed to be home, but the rooms shifted, the image of it going in and out of focus. But he could see the couch. And a familiar form stretched out. It wore pyjamas and a blue dressing gown. An arm hung over the side. John's stomach dropped. He ran to his friend's body. He shook it, but he would not wake up. John could see an empty needle on the floor by the couch, and empty vials beside it.
He shouted. He pulled Sherlock to the floor and checked for a pulse. There was none. He wasn't breathing either. John pounded on his chest, forced air into his lungs. But even he knew it was too late. But why? As he pulled the body close to his own, holding it in his arms, he noticed a letter lying on the couch. It had his name. It told him why. Because John had abandoned him, because Sherlock was too far gone, too broken. So he had overdosed. So John could have a happy life without him and with Mary.
"You idiot. I would have forgiven you eventually. God no. Please come back..."
"I'm sorry Sherlock."
In a small flat, lying beside the woman he loved, one man awoke and cried silent tears.
Far away in a large bedroom, a cat nestled at his side, another woke up and cried alone.