Hi! This chapter is a bit boring, and I was a little uninspired. For everyone that followed put this story on alert, there is no more wait! Virtual cookies for all! ( : : ) ( : : )
John felt the gravel dig into his face as the biker hit him to the ground. The force of the impact made John's head spin and his vision blurry. A whining noise rang in his ear. John pushed himself up, running to the body that lay bleeding on the concrete sidewalk.
John tried his best to push through the medical personnel that had gathered around the body.
"Please, he's my friend, my friend…" He whimpered as they let him through.
John placed two fingers on his cold neck. Blood dripped onto his wrist but he didn't care. He waited. For the beat. And he waited. There was no beat.
There was… no pulse… No. He couldn't be dead. It was just another one of his petty games, another desperate attempt that he could outsmart anyone. Yet somewhere deep in the back of his mind, etched into John's brain, he knew that this was no game.
John noticed that people had held him back and that tears were running down his face as he reached for his friend. He cried out in an attempt to free himself from the tangle of limbs that stopped him from reaching the body. No pulse. No pulse. No pulse.
John woke with a start. The same nightmare reoccurred every night with the same person. Sweat had started on his forehead as he lay back on the couch of 221B Baker St.
Since the fall, John had found condolences in the alcohol. Many nights he'd come home in a drunken stupor, and lie down on the couch, hoping sleep would overcome him. And it rarely did. John didn't sleep, and when he did, the nightmares were something he rarely wanted to see. John, nearly everyday, felt overcome with fatigue, and Mrs. Hudson had given him sleeping pills.
John took them whenever he felt need, hoping that they would bring him easy slumber and dreamless nights. But it wasn't the case. He found that the pills simply prolonged the dreams of blood splatter and suicide and made them worse, adding details he hadn't noticed before.
John felt silent tears fall down his face. He sobbed and sobbed as he had done many nights when he had gotten particularly drunk, and his emotions were heightened. Then John realized something.
Since his discharge from the army, John had had reveries of his service in Afghanistan. He saw the men scuffling along the desert territory, weapons in hand. He saw the man who shot him. But now instead of wartime memories, he had the repeated vision of his best friends death. He saw him smile while his face went red with tears or cold, John couldn't tell. He heard him say 'Goodbye John' and the heart wrenching terror John felt when he heard the click of the phone hanging up could not be described. He saw the man open his arms wide, as if to engulf John in a hug, but instead saw him tip forward, flying down to embrace the ground.
The silence in the room sent a new wave of sobs and a fresh stream of tears. This was how I met him, John remembered. He had another memory and longing for the battlefield when he cried that morning. He had met Mike Stanford in the park, who had taken John to the most amazing man he had ever met. This was how his day started. It was déjà vu, but John new that he would never see the man again.
John rose from the couch and wiped the tears away from his face. He sighed inwardly, feeling the ache in his heart more than ever with the throbbing hangover. He got up on his stiff knees, the joints cracking when he stood properly. John walked slowly forward, tripping over his own feet as he rubbed his temples. He stumbled to floor, knocking over various items on his way down. Glass bottles shattered musically as they hit the floor.
"Is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson's voice rang out from downstairs.
John got himself up before yelling out "Fine."
Bits of glass dug into John's hand. Blood oozed slowly out of his cuts and dripped onto the debris-ridden floor. He delicately picked out the large bits of glass, placing each small bit into the trash. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed the number.
"Hello?" The kind feminine voice picked up almost immediately.
"Sarah? Hi. I was wondering if you'd like to come over?" John hadn't seen her in a while, and even though there relationship had demised, they were still good friends.
"Is something wrong?" Her tone was worried and filled with concern.
"Oh, um, I'm fine. Please could you just come over?"
"I'll be there in 10." Click. The phone went off.
John sat in pain while waiting for Sarah to arrive. He had been granted two weeks off of work to cope with his loss, but it hadn't been enough, and Sarah and helped him plea for an extended leave, which was granted.
"John?" Sarah's voice was heard from down the stairs. "John? Where are you?"
"I'm up here."
John heard the light footsteps on the stairs and the small creak of the old floorboards as she made her way up. Seeing the mess he was in, she put her bag down.
"Oh, John." She sighed and ran towards him, engulfing him in a hug that just screamed pity and concern. His hands patted her back, and the glass dug further in to his hands. He winced, and she pulled away.
She took a medical kit out of her bag, and pulled out tweezers, alcohol and bandages. Sarah sat John down and surveyed his hands, carefully plucking out the pieces of glass that had etched into his hands. The wounds bled slightly, and she dosed them in alcohol. Even though John was used to the stinging sensation of wound treatment, tears still sprung in his eyes. She delicately wrapped his hands in the antiseptic bandage before helping clean up the glass, alcohol, and blood that decorated the floor like paint splatter on a canvas.
When they finished cleaning up the glass and John had put the kettle on for tea, they sat down side by side on the couch. John looked down in embarrassment, ashamed that he had to call Sarah because of his mess-ups and because he felt another panic attack creeping up. Sarah looked at him solemnly, trying to decode his expression.
"John, what's wrong?" Her hand moved across to his, giving it a squeeze.
He looked down, not wanting to say anything. But Sarah was clever, and she didn't care that they once dated; she was still a good friend to him.
"It's the nightmares again, isn't it?" She pressed, speaking softly. "John, you need to tell me what's wrong. Doctor's orders."
John sighed in heavily. He knew it would be best to tell Sarah but he couldn't find the words. "I keep seeing faces, so many faces." John said quietly, taking his hand out of Sarah's and burying his face in it. "I see his face, smiling with a cold laugh right before he falls down. I see Moriarty's taunting face, I see his henchman knocking me out to cover me in explosives. And when they took me to the pool and told me what to say to him, the look on Sherlock's face was so unbearable, like for a brief second he thought that I would betray him. And god knows, I would never do that." John wiped the tears before they fell, and looked directly at her. "I just don't know what to do with myself anymore."
Sarah looked at him, her eyes swimming with sympathy for John. "John, it's going to be alright." She engulfed him in a hug, and tears began to fall down John's cheeks because he knew that Sarah couldn't see. "John, he wouldn't want this. You know that. He wouldn't want to see his best friend go off the bloody deep end." She pulled apart and spoke strongly. "You know what you need to do."
"Kill myself?" He looked at her, and smiled a little.
"No!" She looked at him shocked, then realized that he was joking, and returned the smile. "No, John. For your sake, get better. You go back to work on Monday, remember? And you need to do this for him."
John looked away, scared at what 'getting better' meant. It would mean no more numbness. No more condolence. No more wasting away in something that took his pain away.
"Please? John, for him?"
John wiped the tears that had once again sprung in his eyes. "Fine."
Sarah embraced him, almost knocking him over. When she pulled back, she was grinning. "Right, John. I did this with my father a while back, and I'm gonna do this with you." She hopped up from the couch, and went around to the bottles that say carelessly around the apartment. She knocked them all into a trash bag, each bottle shattering after the next. Emptying the cupboards of liquor, she spoke brightly. "The first step is getting rid of it all." She went through every single cupboard and drawer, and even found the secret drawer that John had used when LeStrade had tried to rid him of his habit.
"Not all of it!" John protested when Sarah walked down the stairs and placed the trash bag in the dumpster outside. He didn't want to rid himself of the pleasure entirely, just maybe lessen it a little.
"All of it." Sarah said firmly, as she walked back up the stairs. John knew that it would be the best if every last drop was taken out of his reach, but what would he do to take away the pain that left him sobbing?
Sarah stood before him, hands on her hips, surveying him. John stood up slowly, unsure of what to do.
"What are you going to do then?" John asked, wondering what he could do at 3 o'clock in the afternoon.
Sarah looked around the room, her eyes darting back and forth as she took in every inch of the still-cluttered apartment. "I've got to get back to work. What about you?" She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her bags.
"I'm going to go visit someone, I think."
"Not… not Sherlock's grave?" Sarah questioned quietly and looked embarrassed when she did, as if she regretted saying what she did.
"No. I think I'm going to visit an old friend." John pulled on his coat and stood before her. "Come, I'll walk you down."
Sarah hailed a cab after hugging John one last time, and was off. John got into the next one, and drove off of Baker St.
As soon as John stepped out of the cab, he was bombarded with photos from paparazzi. He had thought that since a month had passed, the media would have the sense to leave him alone. But no, he was not left in the peace that he had tried to seek out from the darkest pits of his mind, he was instead swarmed with flashing cameras and notepads. Why were they waiting outside the police station anyway?
"Mr. Watson! Over here!" John turned his head and was blinded by the flash of a camera.
"I'm Maria Turner, Daily Mail. Tell me, what of these arsons, Mr. Watson?"
"Is it true that you have become an alcoholic after the death of so-called genius, Sherlock Holmes? Is it true that you haven't even been able to face a day at work because of your distraught over the suicide of a clearly unstable fake-genius psychopath?" A man jumped in front, and sneered those words with such distaste that John was taken aback at the ferocity. Every single reporter was silent, not a single camera flashed. John surveyed the man, trying to analyze what he could. The man had sleek dark brown hair, and a cap covered his face. He wore faded jeans and a collared shirt, paired with a jacket that John quite liked.
When John didn't answer, and just stared dumbfounded at the man, the man grinned, highlighting every dimple and crease in his face. That grin, it was so familiar. "And, Doctor Watson, is it true that Moriarty was all a lie? A phony that the late Mr. Holmes created for his own psychotic amusement? I read it in the papers so it must be true." The grin reached ear to ear, and John was so angry, he could feel the steam bubbling inside him. In his rage, John grabbed the man by his collar and pulled him so close he could feel the mans breath on his neck.
"Listen here. You don't know anything that happened in the recent weeks before his suicide, so actually do some research before you go and write some story that you know nothing about!" His voice had started low, quiet and harsh, but it didn't take long for it to rise to a shout. He released the man and pushed him away, and walked through the parting sea of reporters, while he heard the malicious laugh of the man.
John, once again, felt all eyes on him as he walked through the police station. People behind desks stopped their typing and they're eyes followed his as he made his way to the elevator. People whispered to each other, but stopped when he walked past. Will I ever be rid of the burden Sherlock left behind? John wondered. He punched the button for the elevator, and rode up to the third floor.
John swaggered through the hallway, and at that moment he was too tired and too hung-over to care what they thought. He pushed through the glass door that lead to LeStrade's office, and was surprised to see that the office was empty.
He sat down in the office chair, rubbing his temples too rid himself of the headache that he had brought on himself.
A glass of water slid down the desk in front of him. "Drink this, it'll help."
John looked up to see Detective Inspector Greg LeStrade looking at him with a pity that John had seen people look at him so often with, and it disgusted him ever so slightly. He drank the water slowly, tasting the medicine that had contaminated the water.
When John put the glass down, LeStrade sat down in the chair in front of the desk. "I wondered when I might see you again. You're not drinking again, are you, John?"
"You mean still drinking, don't you?" Sgt. Donovan had added her own comment, laughing a little at John's clear pain. She appeared from behind the desk, leaning against the doorframe, one of her eyebrows raised in mock amusement.
LeStrade turned his head and looked at her with a harsh glare. "Sally, get your obnoxious ass out of my office and do the paperwork for last nights arson." She met his glare, and smirked one last time at John, then sauntered out the door.
John sighed, and put his head in his hands. Words could not describe the shame he felt at Sally's comment, though he knew better then to let her get to him.
"So," John said calmly. "Arson? I thought you worked homicide?"
"I do. But I was wanted for these cases, don't know why."
"Cases?" John's voice was in surprise. "Cases? As in more than one case?"
"Yes, John. A plural. Possibly a serial arsonist. Last nights one was on Molly's flat building."
"Is she alright?"
"She is now. She was knocked unconscious. Her flat mate carried her out of the building. She's in hospital now."
"She's got a flat share? I didn't know that."
LeStrade laughed. "Neither did I. I talked to the man for a bit, seemed rather quiet. I thought that they were dating, but he coldly informed me that they weren't."
John laughed with LeStrade, glad to be rekindling their friendship that had seemed to crumble away at the edges after Sherlock's death. They went quiet, and an eerie silence filled the room.
"Have you found any patterns to the cases?" John asked.
"Not really, no. I was hoping you'd stop by and see if you could. Sherlock's deduction skills have rubbed onto you a little."
John blushed slightly, flattered at such a strong compliment. To be even praised with something remotely close to Sherlock's abilities was flattery at its finest. "That's too kind, LeStrade, you know that no one comes close to Sherlock."
"You want to know how I met him?" LeStrade asked.
"Of course."
"We were working on a serial homicide. In the same alleyway in 3 weeks, 5 people dead. All shot by a gun with markings. He had been high on god knows what, sitting in the corner. He just laughed at all of us and told us that we were all wrong. Within 3 days he found us our killer. Man by the name of Sebastian Moran. He was sent to prison for life but was released on the conditions that he joined the army. It was brilliant, this investigation. Worked it all out while he was as high as big ben."
"Brilliant." John breathed. "Absolutely amazing."
"You were always complimenting him. He liked that. You couldn't really see it, but he would always smile a little bit afterwards." LeStrade stroked the stubble at the ends of his chin. "You really turned his life around, made him happier than I had seen him since I started working with him."
"I didn't notice that."
"Of course you wouldn't. Since you'd met him you always just assumed that he was like that. You had seen the dark side, and the light side, and the, of course, sarcastic side, of Sherlock. But believe me, everything was so much worse before you came along."
John choked a little. He could feel small sobs forming at the back of his throat. "What about those serial arsons?"
LeStrade sensed his discomfort, and drew back from the desk. "There've been quite a lot, all over the London area. Mainly on flats, but on a couple business buildings."
"LeStrade! Found a pattern!" Sally Donovan's aggravating voice rang out from outside the office. LeStrade stood up and gestured for John to follow, and they hurried out the door.
The walked down the hall to Sally's cubicle, and much to John's comfort, everyone was too busy to stare. LeStrade walked ahead towards Sally's cubicle and surveyed the papers that lay scattered across the desk. Sally smirked and walked towards him, smirking.
"Oh, so you did stick around? That's funny, considering how low you went after the death of the Freak."
John didn't think. He just didn't. He didn't know why he did what he did, but he did, and that's final. He rushed up and pushed Sally against the wall. She just laughed. Cackled. Sneered. Everything she did was to tip John over the edge and it worked.
"Oh? So you're a drunk and a rager?"
John spat the words at Sally, each word filled with the loathing he felt at her. "You know what Sally? You don't know what you are saying! You don't know what had happened in the remaining months of his life. You don't know anything!" John stopped to take a breath, his eyes narrowed in a glare. Sally still smirked, though her eyes showed fear at what the former soldier might do. "He wasn't a freak. And you know what, Sally? You were right. You were bloody right."
"Oh, was I?"
"Yeah. You were right. You once told me that one day, you would be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one to put it there. He did kill someone. Himself."
Sally's glance went from amused to sad within seconds. She had realized what he said and it sunk in. She knew that it was her fault. She had cried at his funeral, hadn't she? It was her fault. She did loathe the 'Freak' but mainly because he outshone her even when stoned out of his mind.
"John! Come here!" LeStrade's voice was sharp with worry, and John took his arms off the wall and walked to him. The silence in the police department was unbearable and John could feel everyone's eyes boring holes into him.
"What is it?" John asked quietly.
"Look familiar?" LeStrade handed him a sheet of paper. A map of London. Every single house that had been the victim of the arsonist was highlighted in red. The pattern. He saw it now. And the pattern was just too familiar.
I O U