A/N: Still going with the song Weighty Ghost by Wintersleep. Love it. Hope you enjoy this second part!
Sick of those Goddamn Clouds
The day after his friend had died, John Watson still hadn't returned home.
He was still walking blindly, no thought towards destination. It was like the map had been lost, the GPS failed, the sun no longer following the patterns it always had; there was nothing to steer him towards anything. He had lost his compass, his North Star had exploded and he was too disgusted with everyone around him to bother asking directions.
Not that he knew where he was going.
He wondered where his body would go if he simply left it. Not physically, but consciously. Sherlock had always deemed out-of-body experiences utter rubbish but John wished desperately for one now. He didn't want to remain in this aching mass, this torturously living thing. It was a cage now.
People shuffled past him, talking about the weather or gossiping; now John truly knew what it was like, feeling complete and utter resentment.
He hated how everyone was so oblivious to the loss, too dense and unobservant to realize the world was darker than it had been…
John had never hated clouds before but, as he looked up at those cheerful white bundles, he passionately wished for them to turn grey or black. He wanted rain to baptize him; cleanse everything.
Right then, amnesia would have been a fucking blessing.