Author's note: I apologize for the fact that I haven't updated in a bit- summer traveling...
Anyway, do enjoy.
...
Part 3
John was utterly alone.
Never before had he felt the way he did now, never in his life. It was pain, almost unbearable pain, smothered by a layer of numbness he was afraid to beat away; he was scared of what would happen to him if he did.
His life had become a monotonous cycle- he ate and slept at the exact same times every day, showed up at work at a specific, constant time; he kept himself busy. He was still a doctor, still at the same place. He saw his patients, quietly listening to their ailments; he spoke to his coworkers only when necessary, keeping his head down and immersing himself in the work. The alternative was too overwhelming, too much to face at the current time.
His apartment, ten minutes from the workplace, was tiny, crammed in with a hundred identical copies in the same building; a bedroom, small bathroom, and a kitchen that opened into the living area. The furniture had come with it. Everything seemed strangely drained of color- the entire space was done in shades of beige, off-white, pale blue or gray. John hadn't bothered with much customization- simply setting his laptop down on the table and hanging his coat on the door. There was almost always a lone teacup, sitting forlornly by the sink, sometimes a newspaper on the coffee table; but no pictures on the walls or side tables, no attempt to brighten the space somewhat.
His dreams, however, were chaotic.
Almost as soon as he closed his eyes he would relive that horrible moment, nearly every night, over and over again. His best friend's final words, distorted by the phone. The fall. His figure, the black coat billowing around him, like he was flying, flying to the earth….
He always woke right before Sherlock hit the ground, in a cold sweat, the bedsheets twisted around him like a straightjacket. He would lie still, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, then carefully untangle himself from the sheets and roll over on his side, staring out the window.
Sometimes, the stars were visible.
He visited the grave the first and third Sundays of every month. He didn't bring flowers anymore, as Ms. Hudson wasn't with him most of the time; but occasionally there would be a single rose, a white one, on top of the neatly packed earth. The white roses were always pristine, perfect, and none gave any clue as to who left them. But no matter how many times he came, once a month, a new flower was there.
John would stand in front of the headstone, staring at the name, gold on black. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes he didn't. When he did it was just small things- he told the name about how summer had come, how Ms. Hudson was faring, what was happening at work. Afterwards he would compose himself, turn, and walk away, face grim and unreadable. He never shed any tears, not anymore, none since the first visit.
Then, a day came- November 4th. Exactly six months since the day of Sherlock's death. John was exhausted- he'd spent a particularly long shift at the hospital the night before, dragging himself home at approximately 11:00 PM, then being reawakened by one of the nightmares again. Still, he felt obliged to visit again; so, that morning, he rolled out of bed, dressed simply, and set out.
There was a white rose, as usual, placed carefully at the base of the grave. He stared at it for a moment, then cleared his throat.
"Um… I don't quite… know what to say…." He sighed in frustration.
"I'm… fine, I guess. The therapist isn't really helping- don't tell her I said that. Not that you could, anyway… I haven't the heart to fire her yet, she needs the business."
He stopped for a moment.
"I'm… well…." He clenched his hand into a fist.
"I'm lost, okay, Sherlock? I don't know what to do, I almost don't know how to keep going…. It's not the same without you and I've said it before but just don't be dead, you'd better come back, you'd better…." His voice gave out and he closed his eyes, trying to breathe normally again. He turned sharply and left the graveyard, trying not to think.
But as soon as he closed his eyes that night, the dreams came again- the images of the falling figure in the black coat, except they didn't stop. He was forced to relive that moment, over and over again, like a stuck record that refused to be fixed.
Then he flashed forwards until he was next to the body on the pavement; the blood running down his face, his lifeless hands, his eyes… oh, god, his eyes, once the sea-green of the ocean after a storm, were blank, staring up at the sky, no meaning left.
And John could only stand and watch.
Watch as his best friend plummeted to the ground.
Watch as he lay broken on the sidewalk.
Watch as Sherlock faded away.
John woke with a cry; he struggled against whatever was wrapped around him so tightly, robbing him of air, before he realized it was the sheets again. He disentangled himself and realized that there were tears on his face.
Rubbing them angrily away, he slowly got up and trudged into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He sat down at the table and turned on his laptop for no apparent reason, probably just to have something to do; however, there wasn't anything to do. Not anymore, as his life was hardly interesting at this point… he stared idly at the screen before the whistling of the kettle eased him to his senses, and he closed the computer with a sharp snap.
The tea sat on the table in front of him, steaming; but even after he'd taken the bag out he didn't drink. He could only sit there and watch the translucent white ribbons spiral gracefully to the ceiling, slowly growing fainter as it grew cooler. Memories flickered at the edge of his conscience, but he pushed them back, forcing himself not to sink into the bog again.
He screwed up his face and pressed his hands to his eyes. Pull yourself together.
John stayed that way until the sun peeked up over the rooftops of London, unable to get up, unable to sleep; finally, he picked his head up, took a deep breath, and began his day as usual.
…
Run.
Cold air whipped at his face, fighting him, but he refused to give in to it, he had to keep going; footsteps echoed rapidly behind him, and in his mind's eye he could see the figure advancing down the labyrinth of alleyways and dark, narrow streets.
Sherlock dove aside into an alcove and pulled out the gun, alternatively shooting and flinging himself against the worn brick wall. The other man had planted himself at the mouth of the street, feet apart, his own gun held out in front of him with both hands. His face was hidden in shadow, but Sherlock knew it well enough- one of the accomplices, puppets, more like, of the second most dangerous man in London.
And now, he'd apparently been discovered.
He let out a frustrated sigh at the stubbornness of the other- give up, already- and burst out into the open, firing over and over again. The gunshots echoed off the high walls, ringing in his temples; one bullet whistled by so close to his head it ruffled his hair. Then, finally, a single shot entered the other man's forehead, and he fell, a pool of blood rapidly spreading over the pavement.
Sherlock sighed, putting the gun away, and walked up to the body of the enemy. His eyes stared at the sky, blank, marble-like. He shoved the body over with his shoe- they'd find it soon enough- and walked away, adjusting his scarf and turning the collar of his coat back up.
It was tedious, really- they just kept coming. He had to finish them off, every time… he'd once sworn that he would never be the one with the blood on his hands, but now, it seemed he had no choice. Officially, he was dead; Mycroft had had a laugh about that one, when he'd found out….
He let out a slight breath through his mouth, brushing the flyaway hair from his forehead- no longer dark, he'd dyed it (after many arguments about his personal safety with his brother) to a light shade of ginger, slowly fading to dark brown at the roots again. It was nearly always tangled, wild; at least no one would recognize him, not like this. Even he wasn't used to what he'd become, what he was now.
Sherlock laughed, a wisp of a chuckle escaping his lips, as he strolled along, not in any great hurry to get back to the pigeonhole that was his hideout now. It was truly stupid- all of it- with Moran scrambling to clean up after him, to keep the authorities in the dark (more than usual, anyway) and going back to hide while the sun was out... so much, he was almost tempted by the dim lights of a pub he passed- that was what normal people did, wasn't it? Go to the pub, drown their brain cells in a grimy tankard of god-knew-what….
That, however, was not an option, and even if it was it wouldn't have felt right.
He paused before entering the dark, enclosed side passage, fingertips brushing against the wall ever so slightly, counting the mud-streaked doors until he reached the thirteenth one. It was unlocked, again- Mycroft would have had a fit if he knew about Sherlock's "carelessness"- and yielded to the pressure of his hand, swinging open into the cellar-like room.
His coat and scarf were flung onto the hook behind the door; the lamps flickered dimly to life. Sherlock crossed the room and collapsed onto the shabby couch, lanky form occupying more than its area, rubbing his hands over his face like it would clear his mind. Wondering how long it would last like this. He was to the point of almost not caring- almost- for the gunmen and Moran still lived….