SECOND YEAR WITHOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES
After cutting was proven to be effective in exterminating Sherlock's apparition, John's spirits rose. His arms grew littered with scars, but they were a small price to pay for the specter's disappearance.
At first, John merely pricked his fingers, producing only a drop or two of blood. He didn't bother trying to make it appear accidental; instead, he made a show of it.
He would wake up, undaunted regardless of nightmares, or lack thereof, and saunter to the kitchen. John's eyes would never leave the detective's perplexed facial expression and hesitant body language as he followed the smirking doctor into the kitchen. John would look away from Sherlock only to grasp the one knife he allowed to pierce his skin. Upon grasping the now-familiar weapon, he would brandish it in front of the puzzled detective. He'd do this for a varied length of time; some days he toyed with the knife for a moment while other times he caressed it for hours.
The detective always appeared befuddled.
Once the doctor's anticipation reached uncontrollable heights, he would grasp the handle with one hand over the other's fingers. He would prick a random finger and watch the specter. As soon as the cool blade punctured John's skin, Sherlock's face morphed into horrified shock. He'd move forward, his hand stretching towards the wound though his lips made no sound. As the apparition reached for John, it would dissolve into nothingness, leaving the doctor in solitude for the rest of the day.
The pricking lasted for two months, during which John's sanity grew (or shrank), and he was able to leave the flat. He returned to his job at St. Bart's, chuckling every time he looked at the roof.
The specter would be expunged in the mornings, so John was never bothered at his job or when he went to pubs with his friends or on dates with women. His friends were relieved that John seemed back to normal. They never brought up the detective and neither did the doctor.
His girlfriends came and went with the same (if not higher) speed than before Sherlock jumped (it was foolish to think of it as anything but intentional suicide). It didn't really bother him that his relationships weren't working out; he wasn't seeking love or a soul mate.
John had denied being gay for so long that, once the man who perpetuated such rumors was out of his way, he felt like he had to solidify his claims of heterosexuality. Whether it was through relationships that lasted two weeks tops or one night stands, being with women helped him forget that the one person he ever loved, the first and only man he had ever loved, committed suicide right in front of him.
He found more pleasure not in indulging himself with various women, but in the mornings after.
Sherlock's apparition would be watching John as he awoke in his bed (he was finally able to sleep in his own room) beside a female with a hurt-filled, tearful expression coupled with an air of defeat. Seeing the pain on Sherlock's face filled John with exhilarating albeit sickening glee.
He'd walk her out of the flat, stopping just in front of the door to kiss her (her eyes would close though his remained open to savor every minute of the specter's obvious hurt). Sometimes, they would be long, languid kisses and other times they were quick pecks, but they all made the apparition's sadness expand.
Once she had left the flat, John would walk up to the kitchen and begin his cutting ritual.
The first time he brought a woman to his flat and beheld Sherlock's devastated appearance, he hadn't done anything to make it disappear. He had been repulsed and ashamed of himself, raining apologies and sweet nothings upon the silent detective for the remainder of the day.
After a particularly gruesome nightmare the following night, John leapt out of his bed and into the kitchen, to make himself tea. He had been followed by the detective and, seeking comfort, thrown himself into Sherlock's arms. He was brutally disappointed when his embrace was met with air rather than flesh, and his anger returned, stronger than ever.
Why should he feel bad for insulting Sherlock when the man was haunting him? Why shouldn't John revel in the specter's anguish when it deserved it?
For whatever reason, John didn't prick his finger. Instead, he took the blade and sliced the skin on his arm, from elbow to wrist, and glared at the apparition until it vanished. He then stared at the blood dripping from his arm, mesmerized.
His mind sharpened, everything impossibly clear as his blood pooled on the floor.
His icy apathy returned, the pain from the self-inflicted wounds the only thing the doctor allowed himself to feel.
Even though his scarred arms were exposed when he slept with women, they never received attention. Whether they noticed or not, they never touched the marks nor questioned their existence.
He continued frivolously indulging in women for five months, until he snared a woman named Mary.
She was gorgeous, with a striking resemblance to Sherlock, and he ended up dating her for longer than two weeks. Mary was sweet and kind and, although John was still submerged in apathy, he allowed the relationship to continue. He didn't put much effort into the relationship, and Mary didn't like that.
Even though she was the sort of person that seemed to possess limitless patience and positivity, she grew frustrated. It was obvious to her that he didn't care about their relationship; it was obvious to her that, while he had stolen her heart, his was long gone.
She tried everything to make him like her, but it backfired. Instead, John grew more withdrawn and hostile.
It wasn't because of her that his mood darkened, though he could never tell her that.
As their relationship blossomed, cutting himself stopped working. At first, the detective would reappear only at the end of the day, but, despite the increasing depth and frequency of his injuries, Sherlock began reappearing minutes after the blade was removed and cleaned.
What was he to do now? It wasn't like the detective was hurt anymore by John's interaction with women; Sherlock's apparition took to derisively sneering at him when the doctor was around Mary. Sherlock bore a smug smirk, as though the detective was mocking John for his efforts to get over his dead love.
Mary did her best to quell her rising anger, but, one day, she snapped.
They were at John's flat watching a Bond film. John's ears, despite the apparition's frustrating silence, were ringing with the scathing criticism Sherlock had thrown at the screen when the doctor watched it with him. He clenched his fists and tapped his foot, willing himself to remain silent.
The next thing John knew, they were shouting at each other. He wasn't even sure why they were fighting or what was said, but he continued screaming back at her. He just wanted to get Sherlock's voice out of his head.
His mind snapped into awareness when she yelled that she quit; they were finished. Sherlock's smug smirk widened (if that was possible), and John's anger grew. He would show the detective that he was over him; he wouldn't let Sherlock ruin yet another of his relationships.
Masking his fury, John's voice morphed from angry screams to desperate pleading and husky reassurances of his affections; however, she was not moved. She stood and listened to John's lies, but she did not back down. Instead, Mary repeated that they were over. It was too late for him to apologize and claim he loved her. Did he really think she was so blind that she wouldn't be able to see that he loved another?
John snapped. Mary obviously hadn't thought before she asked the question, and she began apologizing, but it was too late.
She wasn't going to return to him even though she felt remorse for her careless queries, that much was obvious.
For a moment, John saw red as unspeakable rage encompassed him, but apathy took over once more.
If he couldn't have her, no one could.
He moved to the kitchen, acting as though he was going to make tea, and she followed him, apologies still pouring out of her ruby lips.
He reached for the knife and, quicker than thought, began plunging it into her body. Her eyes grew wide with shock, horror, and pain as the blade grew more and more slick with her blood. Her body sank to the ground, and John followed, still stabbing her though the life had left the beautiful green orbs.
John looked up and beheld Sherlock's familiar stunned expression before the apparition vanished.
John's eyes flickered towards the corpse before returning to the spot where the detective had previously stood.
So that's all it took, John thought, a satisfied smirk stretching across his blood-spattered face.
Side note: I do not hate Mary at all, though I am a Johnlock shipper and do possess a fear that her presence in series three will cause John and Sherlock's dynamic to do a complete 180. While I am not entirely sure why I had John's girlfriend be Mary in this story, it is not because I loathe the character.