Sherlock ran. He ran as fast as he could behind that car. He ran for minutes, even miles. But it never stopped. The only thing he could see through the tears in his grey and stormy eyes was John's blonde head. He never turned his face to look at him.
John, his brother was gone. For ever.
A black car was behind him. It was Mycroft. The last thing Sherlock wanted to do in that moment was talk to him. He was his brother, yes. But he knew perfectly well that Mycroft was the one who helped John to enlist to Afghanistan. His minor position in the British Government was bullshit. He was the hand signing every damn paper under the PM's name.
But what hurt him more, was the fact that every one knew, but him. Why?
Why John had tell everyone but him? Why John was leaving him? What has the war he didn't had? And why he told him those lies?
John was more than his brother. They were one.
Mycroft opened the car's door and waited for him to get in. Five minutes. Sherlock stood there, looking at the car losing itself in the road.
"Sherlock."
He didn't get in. He just walked the way back home in the white snow and under the dark sky of that winter afternoon. He was only wearing a pair of dark jeans and an old t-shirt. He was freezing, but he didn't care. The only thing he was thinking of in that moment was John.
John could hear him screaming his name and running behind the car. He tried very hard to not tell the cabbie to stop and hug his brother- no, Sherlock. But his words killed him. His chest had a terrible pain, even worst than that morning many years ago when he realised he wasn't going to see his parents again.
The cabbie looked at him through the mirror, and asked to him if he should stop.
"He's calling you, mate"
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He couldn't even turn his head to see him. He was too ashamed to look at him.
"No, go faster if you can"
The old man nodded and stepped strongly over the accelerator and a few seconds later, there was only silence. Sherlock stopped screaming his name, and also running.
Tears were still falling over his cheeks. He certainly got shot. And that bullet, with his name on it had wounded his soul. He wasn't John Holmes. Who was he now? A piece of furniture with the name 'Holmes' printed on him? A replacement of a dead still-born-baby?
Who was he now?
Sherlock was back at their flat next day. His landlord asked him for his brother, but he didn't say anything. He couldn't be there and feel alone. It wasn't the same without John. Nothing was going to be the same without him.
And his mind was being tough. He couldn't be there and feel safe. John always made him feel safe. And now he was alone. It wasn't the same without John. Nothing was going to be the same without him. It had been weeks since they last stayed there before they leave to stay with Mother. The whole flat smelled like tea, like John.
In front of him was a picture of them taken years ago by Clara, the very young girl that used to be the maid and after John's arrival she had become like a big sister to them. They were smiling covered with mud from head to toes after a soccer match at school. John taught him how to play it and they were known as the 'golden boys' of their team, being John the most talented for sports.
Despite their height differences, John had an arm around his shoulders and he was smiling warmly and sincerely.
Sherlock could remember that day perfectly. Father and Mother were abroad in some PMs conventions and Clara was the only one there screaming their names when they were close to make a goal. It rained, and soon after the match they were all covered in mud and a very happy John couldn't stop laughing at him and his dark curls which were all wet and dirty.
But Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. That place was full of John. Full of pictures of him and memories. He went down to the dark streets and stopped at the black door of two-two-one-B of Baker Street. Years ago John and he had been there. It had been his discovery after days of searching, and when they went to the famous museum of his favourite author, they were there and Sherlock promised John they will live there, just like their fictional characters.
He stopped his tears before they fall. John, his brother, was going to a war. He was going to fight against something he didn't need to. But his mind now was at the moment he said things he didn't mean to.
John was his brother. No matter if he was adopted, he never cared. The only thing he regretted in that moment was telling John those things. Those things he never wanted to say. Thing he never felt in his heart.
He needed to forget. Sherlock needed to forget John Holmes just for a night.
And Sherlock walked through the most dangerous alleys in London and met a 'white lady'. The man who sold him that white powder told him he could feel better and forget every bad thing of his life. And he wasn't a poor man. Sherlock bought enough cocaine to kill himself that night.
And maybe erase John Holmes from his mind forever.
THE LAST UPDATE OF THE YEAR. HAVE A VERY GOOD AND HAPPY NEW YEAR! 2012 WILL BE AWESOME, BECAUSE SHERLOCK IS BACK!
THANKS FOR THE LOVELY FEEDBACK AND SUPPORT :)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS? I HAVE TO SAY THIS WILL BE MORE ANGST SOON!