A bone chilling rain had began falling upon the lone figure as he traveled along his uncertain path. Clouds further darkening the midnight sky. A fitting backdrop to his utter disappointment, his swirling of emotions. He starts walking faster and faster to escape his downhearted thoughts. All he desired was that one single moment where his mind was no longer racing, crying out in torment, screaming the loneliness of his heart.

Walk. Walk. Walk. He chants to himself until it becomes a mindless mantra that soothes his soul. Think of nothing. Not regret. Not the jubilation of seeing him alive. Think of the street, the asphalt, the steps it takes to walk another kilometer. Think of the rain that soaks his jacket and his clothes from the previous day. Think of anything that does not lead back to Sherlock, to the flat and what it contained. Crushed hope. Nothing. Empty air and a person who only desired friendship.

He tripped on a curb and a rush of ideas entered his head. The rhythm was broken and he could no longer distract himself from the thoughts beneath the surface. Abruptly he stopped in horror. Standing perfectly still for a second, knowing the answer in an instant before continuing. Understanding it completely, he allowed it to fill him and his entire body as though a burning liquid poured into an empty, fragile teacup causing it to shatter upon impact.

'Finish what you started John, then you will be at peace,' a silky lizard thought had slithered into his head. 'Finish what you began all those years ago after Sherlock's Fall. Take the cowards way out. Turn your back on that solider you once were, forever. That man who could and would fight to survive anything, even broken and half-alive. Open the doorway into the void, seek your own death. Say that final goodbye.' He had thought it then and he thought it now.

Yet did he have the strength to actually proceed along such a course. Could he, would he have the energy to actually cut himself out of this painful existence? He contemplated dispassionately, as a shiver ran through him. It was not, impossible, he realized. In fact, in actuality it could be rather easy. Physically at least. Considering his already dark need to take the blade and run it over his arms, pressing until the blood rose in a desperate need to feel alive. Turning the knife to a more grim finite purpose would be far, far easier now than when he had first conceived of the original idea five years ago. Then as he had struggled to want to survive his best mate's suicide, instead of joining him on the ground beneath that unforgotten building.

Before Sherlock's return, John had imagined such a complete ending to his pain many, many times. Now he was a little uncertain, unsure of himself and so he continued to process this, taking it even further as he tried to envision Sherlock's reaction when he heard the news. Would he be relieved, uncaring, indifferent or would he mourn the loss of his best mate as John had once mourned him? And does it even matter what he would think or how he would react? It is not as though John would be there to witness it, after all. His reaction was therefore meaningless and not a part of his decision now he decided. Perhaps death was the only way to finally be done with everything: grief, loss, tormented desires.

Like a train derailing, he mentally pauses.

No.

His heartbeat quickened with life, fighting against those sour imaginings. Everything had changed now and suicide was no longer an option. Was it ever his answer to the final question? John did not know but he desperately needed to think of happier times. If only he could cling to those little instances in life, he could begin to live again and he would only have to bury his heart deeper in forgetfulness to do so. Truly if he wanted to he could recall so much good before The Fall. He could attach himself to those tiny details of that old life, like a barnacle on a rock as the tide tries to sweep it out to sea. Rebuild his happiness part by part, piece by piece, in small measures using those little gestures of the past.

Memories flood his brain in an synaptic minute: A single little glance of mirth, laughter against a wall, arguing late into the night. John reminding Sherlock of the social niceties he ignored and Sherlock accepting his corrections in an effort to become a socially better person. He had wanted to please him. That was what he loved most about the man, he didn't give a damn what anybody thought, except for John. He alone had the power to correct Sherlock's rude behavior and Sherlock would not only listen to him, he would immediately alter his outright cruelty. Not by softening his former words but rather by speaking what John expected to hear, what he needed to hear. Sherlock had seemed to sense the necessity and he tailored himself to John. Perhaps he had placed his trust in him merely because of his understanding and admiration of John's inherent goodness, the knowledge that he would never steer him wrong. Never.

Not all was lost, he suddenly realized. He had trusted him completely and he would again.

The reality of soon being able to be near Sherlock and feel his trusting eyes upon him, hit him in the chest. He could almost feel the energy Sherlock brought to any space he inhabited, that singular spark of life and it gave John some much needed comfort.

Besides Sherlock there were also those little things he would always love: Jam, kittens, mornings, this morning in fact. For some reason currently unknown to him on this clouded evening that had felt so right - this morning. He shrugged off the tender emotions as quickly as they came, because he would never understand how he had gone from waking up in such happiness only to later fall, plummeting into these melancholy depths. Even now the residual achingly emptiness of those suicidal thoughts, nearly threatened to overwhelm him again. He swallowed hard chocking on unexpected tears, permitting the rain to wash them away.

John had not always given in to the danker side of his usually sunny personality. Before Sherlock. His reasoning pauses as he continues to move along the street. Usually here he would think, died but that is no longer fitting, nor is it technically the truth. Sherlock was alive, after all and now that truth was the most heartbreaking recollection inside his head. Alive. Home. Yet, still a world away as far as John was concerned. It was as though he could see him through plate glass, soundproof as he shouted his name and could only watch as he turned away, not even noticing his presence or his screams.

In actuality it had also been like that in the past. Underneath the amusement, John was only an outsider peering in. There was nothing to hold Sherlock there, nothing to make him want to wait until he could discover a way through that window that forever separated them, he sadly realizes. Sherlock could vanish at any time if he did not pull himself together and be the friend he needs, not the lover he had always desired to become if he had lived. He mentally sighs and tries not to sink any further into this new found despair. He turns his eyes upwards and discovers he has returned to Baker Street.

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Now that I have an actual idea where the Plot is going to go, I seem to be having more difficulty actually sitting down to write this particular story.

Fair Warning:

Much shorter chapter. This shall be a Long-fic. Just so everybody knows.

It is sad and dark, and more than torturous to the characters.

(I've started another that is a little "lighter" in a sense and it may take my mind off the pain and darkness in this one.)

This one shall eventually, hopefully resolve itself in a somewhat happy manner but getting there shall be quite brutal.

I love John (he is my favourite Sherlockian character) but I intend to make him suffer - in every possible way, emotionally, physically, sexually.

When this fic turns Darker, the warnings shall be in the synopsis.

Please read it carefully.

Review, if you wish. (They are much appreciated!) Thank you.