The Awakened
Chapter 2 – Old wounds
As John was driven through London's busy, fume filled streets he thought of all the times he and Sherlock had ridden in taxis. Usually in the thrill of a chase or going to the newest crime scene where Sherlock was needed for his undeniable genius and he was just accepted as the blogger.
Thinking about this John had to start to hold back tears as a tightness in his throat made it hard for him to swallow. Stop it, he thought, you're in public people can see you. That was the problem he didn't care, people could see him crying and he wouldn't care, he was mourning the loss of his companion, his detective, his friend…his best friend, his only real friend.
He thought of how he was being silly, he had other friends but now Sherlock was gone he had realised they never really meant anything to him as Sherlock had.
He knew he wasn't the only who missed him. Mrs Hudson, Greg, Mycroft. Even though they would never talk about it with him, knowing it would send him over the edge, he knew that they missed him, but he also knew that they would never miss him as much as he did. Every day he felt the same, as if part of him had been hollowed out and nothing had been put in to fill the gaping hole that had been left.
John was torn out of his thoughts as the deep voice of the taxi driver asked for the money needed for the journey. Blinking back the tears which had formed in his eyes John handed over the money stepping out the taxi and thanked the driver with a cracked voice.
As John looked up at the building opposite the hospital he ran his hands down his face wiping away any stray tears and calming himself down. He turned receding back into his military ways as he always did when his emotions got too much for him.
Walking across the street he couldn't help but let his eyes move up to the roof of St. Bart's where he had watched Sherlock fall from just 2 weeks ago. He let his eyes follow the path Sherlock made falling through the air and landing on the ground. As his eyes met the pavement he stopped, his entire body froze. He couldn't do this; he closed his eyes taking a shaky breath. He knew he had to keep moving, to get out the road but he couldn't make his feet work. He knew that moving would mean going onto that pavement. The pavement where Sherlock had…No he wouldn't think it. It wasn't true, he couldn't think it. Sherlock wasn't dead; someone with his great mind wouldn't do something like that.
He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists tightly as he took a step forward. See not that hard come on keep going he thought. He took a few more painfully slow steps almost reaching the pavement. He closed his eyes not looking at the place where Sherlock's body had been, he stepped onto it rushing over to the building. He reached the wall sliding down it and putting his head in his hands.
He stayed like that for about 5 minutes before slowly raising his head, luckily no one was around. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair still not looking at that place. He achingly stood up, his legs burning from staying still in that position. He lent against the wall breathing deeply for a moment before he stiffly started walking inside, turning his back on the spot where Sherlock had been, where he had been broken and never put back together.
As John started making his way to the morgue to find Molly he thought over what had just happened. It wasn't right. He knew that he hadn't been coping well but he never thought coming back here would be this bad. He wasn't well and he knew it.