A dark cloud hung over John H. Watson, MD.
The cloud never left, never lightened.
It followed every move he made, and sometimes it was so dark he could no longer see.
It was at times like that when all he could do was sit still and shut his eyes tightly, and do his best to re-imagine that last, sweetly painful melody he'd heard the consulting detective draw out on the violin.
If only he'd known then.
What that meant.
How far he'd go...
John bit the inside of his cheek hard, and unconsciously held his breath.
He didn't like to think about that.
But he couldn't help it.
Sometimes he'd just be sitting there, trying to live, and then all of a sudden—in his mind's eye he'd see him, leaning forward, falling, falling, and then—
It didn't do to dwell on the past.
But for John Hamish Watson, there was nothing else.
Upon cleaning out the flat a bit, John had come across a box that contained nothing but a razor blade, a scalpel, and a pin.
They had obviously been his. But whether or not he had been using them up to... that point, John could no longer know. The first thing he felt when he found the box was anger.
Pure, unchecked anger.
Not good enough.
Liar.
He had stared at the contents of that box for a very, very long time, fists clenched until his knuckles whitened—but at long last he shut the lid and put the box away where he'd found it.
He couldn't help but feel that it would be unfair to him, somehow.
But he knew that thought wouldn't last long.
The world around him was dull: not grey, but faded and washed out. The one colour that stood out to him was red.
There was scarlet all around—and it made him sick.
Few people came to the disgraced detective's funeral, and John could feel only loathing for them.
They were here now—but where had they been when he had needed them the most?
When he had been hanging on by a thread, all alone...
It wasn't fair.
They didn't care. They didn't give a shit that his entire life had been nothing but shit, and they would never—never—understand just how much that must have hurt.
How much that hurt now.
And it would probably never stop hurting.
But as angry as he was with all of it… he felt he must somehow deserve this. He had been unable to help him.
He had failed his best friend.
He must have.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have jumped…
He would still be here.
Languishing over there on the couch, letting his tea go cold, or shooting up the walls, or complaining, or playing his violin, or…
It wouldn't be so quiet.
John drew his feet up onto the armchair, wrapping his arms around his knees and hugging himself tightly. He couldn't look at that empty couch anymore.
He didn't want to be this alone anymore.
But right now, no one else would do. No one except the one person he would never see again.
Why did it have to be like this?
How could he do this to him?
How could he leave him alone like this, and make him watch everything, too—made him worry for so long, and then—
There was nothing he could do.
John Hamish Watson must be the most useless person in the world.
The most useless friend ever.
He hadn't been enough. Even though he'd tried so hard.
He should have tried harder.
Damn it.
When he finally opened his eyes and looked down his gaze fell on the old Union Jack pillow, lying at the foot of his chair. After a long minute of staring at it, he reached down and picked it up, holding it tightly.
It was so kitschy and patriotic... Certainly not something he would have ever bought for himself.
So...
John's throat seemed to close up as he finally realised whom that pillow had been meant for.
It had been for him.
A little welcome gift, for a homecoming soldier...
He brought it close and buried his face in it, ignoring the dust, and hugged it as tightly as he possibly could. An hour later there were tearstains on the fabric, but that was alright.
A lot of things had tearstains on them, these days.
He stared down at it, trying to get his breathing under control again.
"Sherlock..."
A new burst of aching pain went coursing through him as the word left his lips, another twist of the knife...
It had been over three months since he'd been able to say his name.
At that moment, John would have given anything to make it all stop. To be able to rewind everything and try again.
But that was impossible.
He dragged himself up and padded across the room, still hugging the pillow to his chest. He sought out the place where he knew the box of blades was hidden...
But where was it?
He searched all over, but there was no sign of it anywhere in the flat. In fact, it seemed every sharp thing in 221B was missing, and his gun as well.
Strange...
For another five months or so John could barely force himself to leave the flat, except for the few times when he visited that black marble gravestone, which still seemed so foreign and cold.
It wasn't his friend.
It wasn't Sherlock.
When at last even the flat itself was too dark and too suffocating to bear, he took one last look at the Union Jack and then, without saying a word to anyone, got to his feet and walked out.
He didn't have a specific destination in mind.
He just walked.
It was cold out, but he didn't mind. The outward bite of the wind was a thousand times better than the constant, inward gnawing he felt now.
After a long time he stopped and looked up, sensing that he'd arrived. Saint Bart's hospital towered above him in the grey late winter afternoon, a dull reminder of all that bright scarlet.
Even though he had become mostly numb to everything, the sight of that spot on the pavement was painful.
The world was moving on.
Like all that had never happened.
Like no consulting detective had ever cried on his blogger's shoulder, high out of his mind, or turned a blade on himself in a fit of loneliness…
But he had.
And nobody cared.
John paused on the sidewalk for several minutes, looking up. Then he walked around the side of the building and found his way up the fire-escape, up and up until he'd reached the roof. It was windy and flat up there on top of the world, and something stirred inside him at the thought that this was where he had spent his last minutes.
What had gone through his mind?
What had he been feeling?
Maybe it was a bit like this, now.
But it was too late.
And it was all John's fault.
He stepped up to the edge, looking down on the ignorant world full of people who didn't care at all, and never would.
He didn't like that world, now that it didn't have him in it to make it interesting.
John took a deep breath of bitter air and shut his eyes, letting the wind drive against him, pushing him back…
But no, he wanted to fall forward—
A hand reached out and took hold of the back of his shirt, yanking him back onto the roof.
He almost stumbled and fell on top of them, but found himself steadied, dragged away from the edge.
No…
No…