Who are you? You're looking like a stranger
You were once my love and my saviour
And I can't sleep, the pills they never helped
Tried counting sheep, still hurts like hell
I can't believe this rose has lost its red
And its petals
June, 2015
John still had quite a strong moral compass dictating what was right and what was wrong, but this didn't change the fact that it was unbearable, that it was just too much… God hadn't done a thing. God had saved the wrong person, and was refusing to fix his mistake.
John was sickened because he was well and truly living a life he didn't want. He was living a life he would more than willingly give to a certain someone, but said someone obviously didn't want it because here he was in a world that didn't quite look right, or feel right, or function right, instead of someplace alive and dangerous and good. John knew there was something off about the world, and his doctor's brain finally came to a diagnosis: mother earth was terminally ill. The immune system was gone, its existence spiralling downwards into obliteration. And nothing lasted long without its immune system.
He had lost more than one kind of faith that day, the day his heart disintegrated. It came as no surprise that he realised he didn't care if he went to hell for doing it, if there were such places to begin with…
Long after the blackening of what was left of his heart, John decided to end this. The benefits of being a respected (John scoffed at himself) exArmy doctor included the ability to mislead chemists into thinking you actually have an innocent motive for buying so many sleeping pills. Probably helping a patient. Maybe he was selflessly popping out to get them for a friend, colleague, homeless person who needed them? He'd been in a daze, paying for them at eleven that night, smiling at the checkout lady without it reaching his eyes. It was just like one of those hypnotic experiences you hear about, where you're conscious of what you're doing but don't seem to have much control over it. He felt numb – it was almost as if he was already gone.
What am I saying, I was gone the moment he started to fall.
He was in his flat, not quite remembering how he got there. There were bottles of alcohol in the fridge – he made sure he was always stocked, for emergencies. Such drinks had been his backup plan if the surgery hadn't rostered him on, or the maelstrom grew far too chaotic, but he wasn't completely dependent. It was just another, perhaps less effective, way to dull the pain.
He hadn't had tea in a long while.
Taking out three bottles of the sanctuary liquid, John sank into the couch to watch some crap telly, a final tribute, if you will. It was all re-runs. He didn't care. Before long he was singing along tunelessly, not noticing or caring when he heard insistent, intermittent knocks on the door yelling for him to shut up.
Sometime around one, after a fair amount of fumbling with the remote, the TV was switched off and he made his way to the bathroom, pills in hand, beer bottles empty shells tossed to the floor.
Calmly, smoothly, quite unlike what was expected of a wasted individual, John shut the bathroom door and locked it (habit, you understand). He filled the tub with scalding hot water, stripped, and sank into the last bath he would ever have.
When he was done with the soaking, he stood, dried himself off and went to his room to dress. He was in his best clothes: the black, mended jacket, a few sweatshirts, a clean pair of dark denim jeans, warm socks, and his best pair of leather shoes. Might as well look good for the execution. He took one quick look at himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair was greying at an increasing rate – it was more silver than a dirty gold-brown now. He looked older; a dozen more wrinkles had embedded themselves on his face, adding ten years to his appearance. He had dark lines under his eyes, but worse than anything, John could see no light in his own eyes. No spark of the old John, no life whatsoever. That was worse than the weight he'd lost, worse even than the dry, ashen, slightly flaky skin.
I'm a walking corpse. How fitting.
He pocketed the sleeping pills, grabbed his cane and left.
He was walking through a grimy part of London. Moonlit alleyways, people that looked like shadows, shadows that looked like people, drifting past. It was all an insignificant blur. John focussed on his feet, on walking, hands buried in his pockets, fingering the small bottle.
One-two, one-two. A final mantra, a march to the endgame.
There's no shame in going like this, John assured himself. Even if there is a heaven, I won't go if he's not there. That would be utterly pointless. I'll follow him just like I always have because the idiot needs me just as much as I need him.
And if this plan doesn't work, there's always the pills. I'll do whatever it takes to find him, even if I have to go to hell for it.
"Oi, you!"
John closed his eyes, stopped walking. The mantra ended. There was only strained quiet before the storm now. It was time.
How fitting, yet again, that he had found silence once more – however brief it may be – before taking his leave.
John slowly turned – better to face his death, and noticed that the shadow wasn't even addressing him. He was glaring at a skinny, filthy homeless girl, backed up against a building wall. Speaking words John couldn't hear from where he was, demanding something she didn't want to give.
John strode towards the scene.
He couldn't help thinking how perfectly this had turned out. Soon the good doctor would save someone else, a final act of charity, a fitting outro to his existence. If this ended the way he desired, he would go out a hero. John smiled at the poetry of it all.
"Leave her alone," his voice rang out calm and clear through the still night air.
The shadow looked up, and although John couldn't see a face, he could practically feel the disbelief emanating from the dark form.
"You heard me," John spoke up again, sounding like the soldier he once was.
The figure snorted, "And if I don't? What're you gon' do? Throw a tantrum? Hit me with your walking stick?" he laughed raucously.
John glanced at the girl. She had dirty blonde hair, washed-out skin, and sunny-sky eyes. She had the air of someone who was fighting to survive, but was having trouble doing so. She reminded him of his sister. Her blue orbs were wide, staring at him, and he saw a flicker of hope flash in them. His resolve solidified. He wasn't just doing this for his own selfish purposes now.
It was John who threw the first punch.
The girl wasted no time – once her would-be attacker was distracted, she scrambled away and ran for all she was worth. Perhaps John heard a whispered 'thank you', but he couldn't be sure. His focus was on the cretin before him.
He was around six foot, medium build, probably stronger than he looked. His clothes were well worn but in fair condition for someone slumming it on the streets. He straightened up, nursing his dislocated jaw, sizing up his irritating, puny opponent.
John's heart kicked into gear as he waited. The adrenaline now coursing through his veins like a drug steadied his hand, his limp, his whole body. John couldn't help it when his trained doctor's eye focussed on the critical points of the human body in preparation. Survival instinct, John rolled his eyes in his own mind, useless.
Thoughts raced through his head in those strenuous moments before the end.
John had always seen caring as an advantage. He'd always believed that it made life more fulfilling, made you more human, that it made you a better person when you cared about someone else. But he knew the truth now. He'd seen it for himself a million times out on the battlefield, so why had he not taken any notice? God, he was so naïve. Caring hurt people. People betrayed and broke each other because they cared about each other or about trivial events that hurt them or those they loved. Even care for tangible goods or money hurt others. Caring forced others to do things for their own selfish gain – and why did that work? Because caring was a trait of the losing side. Because caring, because emotions were an excellent motivator. Sentiment. It always came down to sentiment. Emotions were a chemical defect, and this was the final proof. John understood everything now.
People killed each other because they cared.
And people killed themselves because they cared.
John really was only following the natural order of things. Nothing is ever new. No, caring was most definitely a dangerous disadvantage. He was beyond caring about it all now, though, and he felt strangely serene as the shadow approached him with murderous intent.
John had finally come to the final stage of grief. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, John's everything and best friend, was dead.
It was about time he accepted it and did something about it.
But then the sharp crack of a shot splintered through the thin air, and everything went to hell.
A/N: I figured I'd stop asking for reviews and follows and such. Do what you like, it's your choice. But know that I truly appreciate them. For now, though, thanks to the few of you who have reviewed and followed. You have my undying gratitude!