Authors Note: I do not own Sherlock nor its characters. Sometimes the things we write are windows to what we need say but can't, most often because the person we need to say them to won't listen.
Trigger warning for drug use, excessive cursing, Anxiety, Depression, Talk of Suicide, and other mature themes.
John's Silence
Chapter One
The days had begun to run together. Sherlock closed his eyes as a smug smile graced his lips, needle still lodged in his arm.
"Fuck you John," he whispered aloud.
There was no answer. John was gone, and this time Sherlock was pretty sure he wasn't coming back.
The fights had started months ago. John had been angry, angry all the time it seemed, and Sherlock handled it the way he'd always handled things…not well. No one had been doing well the past year, the pandemic had brought out the worst in everyone it seemed. One moment they'd had the world at their feet, and the next…well…
Sherlock dared a glance at John's side of the bed, cold and empty for how long now? Weeks he was pretty sure. John was never gone this long. Anger welled up in his chest, John had always promised him he would never just leave. That if ever there came a time when they couldn't make things work that he wouldn't just abandon him. In the end that was exactly what he had done.
It had only been nine months ago when he'd been right here, in this bed in John's arms, the soldier telling him how proud of him he was. Sherlock had struggled with addiction for so many years, and making the decision to finally get sober for good had been so important to the both of them…for their future.
In retrospect, Sherlock realized he probably had been a little too proud of himself for it. It wasn't how he meant to come off, it was only that getting sober had been something he'd never even dreamed he could actually do, and once he'd started the process, he'd been excited, proud…he'd wanted to share that with the man he loved.
Maybe it was John's work that had him so stressed out at the time, but it seemed like he'd become angry so fast…every day just angry. He'd started to call Sherlock names and take things out on him constantly, and the younger man couldn't keep up with what he had or hadn't done to upset him.
He'd gotten Covid not long after Christmas, and being so thin and malnourished as he was it had taken its toll on him. His smoke damaged lungs had suffered badly, and there was a long period where he'd been so sick and so tired that he hadn't really been there for John. Hadn't even realized how much stress John was under.
John had started to get angrier as time went on, telling Sherlock he couldn't talk to him and that he wasn't a partner, that he felt like his problems were belittled and he was sick of it.
The more Sherlock had tried to make it better the worse he'd made things. He wasn't good with people hadn't John understood that from the beginning?
It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to start to assume that John didn't love him anymore, and he hadn't been all that surprised really. How many times had he told John that one day he'd get tired of his shit and leave him? But John had always sworn he was in this for the long haul. That it didn't matter how many times he slipped up, how many nights he lost sleep because the detective was having a manic episode, how many times they had to go to hospital because he'd had a bad night and cut too deep and needed stitches…again. John had loved him no matter what.
Sherlock groaned and ripped the needle from his arm, throwing it against the wall with sob, "You fucking son of a bitch," he whispered, grabbing John's pillow and curling his long body around it, "why can't I hate you?"
He'd deleted John's number from his phone weeks ago, blocking it away in his memory palace. He wouldn't go begging where he wasn't wanted…not this time. He'd broken down and sent a few emails over the past week or so, all of which he regretted. The first he couldn't even remember honestly; he'd been so high and so angry at the time…. hell, he could have said anything.
After getting no response he'd hit the drugs even harder. None of it mattered anymore, did it? The second email had been short and simple.
"I think I'm having a breakdown. Please call me…"
He'd sat on the bathroom floor, watching little drops of crimson run down his thighs and cried. He'd been released from the hospital only hours before, and here he was, spiraling so fast. Still there had been no reply. He'd fallen asleep on the floor, relishing the sting of the cuts, trying to not look at his phone. Trying not to hope.
He'd been sober for the third email. If he was going to function, he needed to move on, let John go. He needed to say goodbye. It hadn't been a long email. Just enough to say goodbye. That he was sorry that he'd drug John down and ruined so much time for him. That he hoped he would find someone who could do better by him than he had. He hadn't expected a reply. He hadn't wanted one.
He spent the next two days packing up John's things. He couldn't look at them anymore, couldn't stand the sight of them.
Mycroft had called a few times, and he hadn't answered. Lestrade had given him cases to work on but he hadn't solved any in a while, and it hadn't taken anyone at Scotland yard very long to see that the great Sherlock Holmes was in no condition to solve anything anyway.
Rolling off the bed and to his feet he stumbled to the bathroom, yanking open the nearest drawer and grabbing for his stash of razor blades.
The pain calmed him almost immediately. His breath evened out as he drew out line after line across his pale skin. He wondered where John even was. Had he gone back to Mary? Or maybe to Molly's? Hell, maybe he was even at Lestrade's for all he knew. He could see it now, John casually sipping his tea as he told Mary what a dick Sherlock was. How he was emotionally stunted and emotionally abusive and every other horrible thing he could think of.
Sherlock let his head fall back against the wall in defeat. John was right. He'd been a waste of his time from the beginning. And bless it John had tried. Tried to stay through all his bullshit. But in the end, he'd had nothing he could offer the older man. Only his bleeding heart, and that just wasn't enough.
He wished he could just die right there on the bathroom floor, finally stop being a burden to everyone and anyone who dared to get close to him. He promised himself he wouldn't try to contact John again. The soldier had made it clear he was done; his silence had spoken more than any words ever could have.
"I don't care," Sherlock muttered angrily, "I don't care John!"
He drifted in and out of sleep, knowing that when the sun came up that John's silence would remain.
Maybe to be continued. Maybe not. Thanks for reading.