Warning! This chapter has some graphic scenes. There is a suicide attempt, please do not read the first part of this chapter if that is in anyway triggering to you!
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any of it's previous titles.
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June rushes to her room, nothing is available to her sight any longer, all whites and blacks turned to grey, even that god awful blue in her sitting room nothing but a concept. She scratches at her cheeks, despising the residue the water left in its wake and she nearly screams. This all feels like a nightmare and they're times when she's not sure if this life is some sort of terrifying night terror that managed to slip through her defenses or if this is a raucous geared sorrow that had left its mark on her reality.
Either way, she wanted it to end, she needed it to end. She couldn't stand the pain anymore, it was the only out she saw possible, saw as exceptional. She never thought she'd be the one to think of this sort of ending as an out, as a blessing, as a choice.
Even when he had first left it was never a choice, no matter how drenched she was in the aftermath of his storm. But now, now she was walking that tightrope, but unlike most nights where she tries to balance and keep up the good work she wants to drop.
She wants to lose that costly balance, to feel the wind brush through her hair and embrace the ever growing ground as it becomes her new destination. She was done flying. So here she was now, rummaging through her drawers but of all the goddamned things she loses, it's her gun. She swore it was there, in her right hand drawer, but it was nowhere to be found.
She feels as if she's losing it, her grip on reality, nothing but a dream and that horrendous thought occurs. What if this, all of it, really is a dream, a horrible nightmare that she'll wake up from with a sweat so thick it clings to her bed and a tremor so vicious she's shaking to her side.
What if she's still in 221b, letting the dark shadows envelop her in a cold embrace, and that sudden but expected court of strings begin to coax her back to a calm she hasn't had in what felt like five months.
She expects that she'd jump from out of her bed, damn the shake in her leg and the traitorous quiver in her hand. June would be down in that sitting room, faster than light, holding Sherlock like he had just died.
But she doesn't.
She doesn't wake up, she doesn't listen to his melody before recklessly leaving her room just to breathe him in, just to make sure he's there; still there. Because she can't. This isn't a dream, it was a nightmare yes, but far from a vivid state that the mind creates just to plague her. And for once she's angry this can't be her night terror, that it isn't the one thing that wakes her up with wide eyes and the constant drumming in her chest.
Junes throwing her clothes out now, because she swore it was in there, the black stain in her drawer should be there. But it isn't, and it's when she empties the small containment she realizes someone must have taken it.
Someone must have come in here and taken it.
She swerved on her feet, watching the door to her bedroom, her heart crying in defeat. Who'd taken it? Who'd stolen her salvation? She hardly had the patience to wonder why, where they were, because if the person who had taken the gun had intentions on hurting her, she'd let it happen with open arms.
But she finds no sign that someone is in her flat, not a pip, not a squeak, because no one is. She feels at a loss and leaves her room, refusing to just let it down like that, she needed her release, a divide. With a growl on her lips she frowns, refusing to believe that she'd just sit down and let the pain, that overwhelming pain eat her alive while she did nothing.
Nauseous, she nearly falls down her stairs in the middle of her hysterics, breathing heavily she leads herself to the kitchen. She had some medicine, on the counter between the fridge and microwave. Lunesta, to be exact, the little white container came into view and a wave of relief shanked the flat of her back.
Taking it by the cap she twisted it open, with none of the tiny little pills there to greet her; an apoplectic fume raged over her. Throwing the bottle across the room it hit the wall with a discordant pop. Only rapid streams of fire ran its course down her face when she finally huffed out in agonizing wroth, her hands fisting convulsively. How in the hell was the bottle empty? She hadn't used any of that specific medication for almost a month.
Stretching her fingers out they flew to her hair in agitation, running through the strands with barely enough strain to keep her standing. Dropping both arms she leans against the counter, out of air, out of thoughts, out of remedies. A loosely threaded pinch grabbed at her abdomen and she burrowed her head between her now folded arms.
Sobs wracked her body, her shoulders shaking and her legs shifting in with ailing strength. Her chest felt as if it had fallen from grace, her body heavier than it had been in weeks, months even, lead keeping her hung. Her heart will metastasize, she can feel it burning her, setting a flame within her lungs and smoking out her throat. At this point she feels as if she's an ingrown life, something that doctors such as her could just cut away, get her over with.
With one last weeping sob she sucks in a breath, holding her stomach, her chest, whatever she think's will help she heads back to her room. Out of breath, exhausted, she falls to her bed. Curling into the corner she wraps the blankets she hosted at night around herself. It's only her head that's left out, the cold air brushing the turn of her cheeks and the tip of her nose, drying her lips and tears alike.
The thought of taking her life was slowly drifting, the current pulling it back, but soon it would all come forth. Like any current to a great ocean, it pulled back and swept forth. Wreaking havoc both ways.
Sure, she was calming down now, but soon that calm would leave and there'd be another storm to tear her down. Her turmoil came in waves and today she had been drowning, like the sea shells lied to waste on the sand. Just waiting for another rush of that flesh freezing liquid to rise her up, let frantic distraught take its place.
But right now, the wave was subsiding, leaving her to rest in peace. She heaves, holding the air as it comes in with a bitter strike, forcing it back out in the hopes she could breathe without the disadvantage of it tormenting her. Drying her lungs, exhausting her of all life, hallowing her out to a pit of nothing.
A pit that couldn't be filled, whether she wanted it to or not. That hole buried her, a self-made ditch of discomfort, but that sensation was never enough, it never filling the cavity in her chest. So she lied there, letting it grow larger by the second, letting it become her.
And as she lets it become what she once was, as she lets it grow inside her, accustomed to her skin with fraudulent tendencies she realizes she likes it better this way. All the churning in her gut now unavailable for attention, the agony that had rooted her heart like a virus grows dull. Like the blunt of the knife it cuts slowly, but the pain isn't anywhere near the swift injustice the sharp counterpart brings to the table.
Quick and terrible, it cuts deeper but stops short with unscrupulous leavings. Her finger nails dig into the blanket around her, her legs hiking up as if it would help null the transcript the torment had decided to finally take up in reading.
That numb, dull blade sought her out, sliding quickly but not hard enough to draw the proverbial blood. She shuts her eyes tightly, holding back the urge to cry once more and shoves her face into the sheets of her bed.
She hates how it doesn't smell like him, despises it, boils in the agitation that this wasn't his spice, his citrus, his tint of tobacco. But she suffers the strawberry; lets the vanilla waft into her nose and hold her under.
Everything's black now and her breathing sooths into a mellow heat. The void welcomes her, holds her captive and all she can do is except it.
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Taking a deep breath she hummed, the crisp spring air filling her lungs with gratification. Last week was a horror, she knew all too well; the endless debate on whether or not her existence was a tragedy pushed just a little too far for she was just barely holding that tight balance of hers. Swaying back and forth between the both before subconsciously she ended up with the second one. Keeping herself alive, alive enough to breathe in this air, for here she was now doing so, standing atop a field of death.
Gravestones plastered against the green, life hovering over all the death that surrounded her. The sorrow was all but a background now, though, subtly ghosting over her shoulder and leaning against her back, whispering in her ear just how heartbroken she truly was. That she should take action on it, let it out with a melancholy so desperate, so loud and bold that she'd actually receive the support she direly needed.
Crossing her arms with a strict dependency she led herself down the over grown path, weeds and flowers alike reaching each and every grave. Like they had a right to it, a lease that allowed the floral and weed so close to cold, barren stone with hatched in names.
Something so full of life, full of beauty, permitted to host brushes leaned upon stones of expiry. She grazed attention on one of the memorials, reading the name of a dead child, not even a month old. There's a picture on the front of it, a tiny hand holding onto the finger of a mother, as if that were its salvation. Her heart sinks and she has to stop, she has to let that soak in, because she knew that must've been hell for the parents.
Losing something so dear, something so new and young all too quickly was a sentence to your own death. Hesitantly, she pulls her bag up, peering in and finding the Calla Lilies. Still fresh, beautiful and alive, reaching in she takes out about five.
Keeping the stems in place she reached into her bag once more, certain there was some loose ribbon in there from her work place. A kid had given it to her for luck, and apparently for protection against the goblins that take your candy at night. Bringing it to the five strands she had pulled from the bunch she tied a bow around the Calla Lilies.
Setting the coupled lilies next to the grave she sighed. Maybe the ribbon would protect the little girl even after death? A frown creasing her lips subconsciously she turns from the small stone and leads herself towards Sherlock's, the memorial coming into view. June grips the handles of her bag tightly, knuckles brash in white.
She didn't know what she'd do once she stood above him, but she was going to; it had been much too long since she had visited his resting place. The last time being with Ms. Hudson. She pouts at the thought, she hadn't kept in contact with the nice landlady like she had promised her.
Every time she saw her number come up on her phone, it hurt, she sat in pain and it just got harder to pick it up every blurted ring that came into the world. Even texts she had avoided, refusing to come face to face with someone she used to live around.
Someone she and Sherlock both adored. They're lovely, caring, considerate landlady, Ms. Hudson. Who was most certainly not they're house keeper. She almost smiles at the memory, Ms. Hudson always declining that title yet she held it so well.
She stops in front of it, the sleek black shading over the installed carving of his name and she feels an abrupt change in her paced breathing. Her lungs turned dry and that irreversible sting that sat behind her eyes attacked. She wanted to back out, go back to her flat and pretend she was over it all, over everything that had happened.
Over a dead man. A dead man that had changed her for good, brought meaning to her boring life, kept her going without pause. Exhilaration is what he emitted, excitement is what he brought to the table, a dark sense of assessment that would surprise her at times. That would throw her off and keep her down on the ground until she'd surrender.
A man who used danger as a benefactor of distraction in comparison to getting high. He kept her on her feet, kept her excited, awake at night in thought of what might happen the next day. When she was with him she felt alive, for once she felt as if she was important, apart of something. Something that didn't hurt others, something that didn't leave the blood on her hands.
Not like war had, and not like the theoretical blood that stained her fingers after all the damage she had inflicted on her family. He meant something, his name was practically already shining in lights, a spotlight on him as he moved beyond comprehension. His sense of calm anything but calm. All thoughts, theories, they never let him be. Nagging him into submission, forcing him on both knees until he came up with some way to entertain that large functioning brain of his, to keep him busy unless he wished to follow back into an old addiction he's been through before.
He was something else, something new, something she had never encountered before and was hoping to keep. She wanted to him to stay, stay with her as long as possible, because whether she wanted to believe it or not she was in love with him. Or had been, considering he's no longer with her, no longer there to irritate her to no end.
She wanted to be over it all, over everything he had brought into her life, everything he had made her feel and see, everything she had experienced with him. She wanted it to just disappear, because then maybe she'd feel better. Maybe she wouldn't want to leave this world, leave this existence all because he had left her.
She wanted to be over this dead man.
Leaning down she sets the flowers next to his name, lying them flat on the ground with regret. She should've got the roses that had been in that pot, but it just didn't seem worth it. He was worth more than just two roses, that were horribly overpriced she might add.
Standing back she folds her arms and lets what silence she had ignored in her train of thought wrap around her, keep her steady as she store the stone down with an almost glare. She didn't want to say she was angry with him, but she felt as if she might be.
Why?
She didn't know, there was no excusable reason to be angry with a man who wasn't here for a response. Theories, a hypothesis wrapped around her head and kept nudging her forward.
She guessed it was because he left her, alone, left her to grieve, but more than anything was how he ended it. How she ended it. And suddenly, in a rush all rage is pointed towards her. Her last words to him. The last thing she said to his face and she wants to scream, finding that she must've hurt him greatly.
Ms. Hudson had been sent to the hospital, had been shot, or at least she thought she had been. Regardless, he had refused to see her, to go with June and check up on her. And so high on obtuse fury she snapped. Calling him a machine. And she aches.
That look he had given her, something so strange, so odd that she ignored it. He appeared hurt, like she had just snapped him in two with a smile. Even so he responds with how alone he was, with how it protected him, spite in his baritone, spitting it out as if to get back at her. And June being June snapped once more, giving him a flick on the wrist from where she stood, leaving him to think of his actions, of what he had said, of what he had just accomplished. A gold medal on being an inconsiderate asshole who she greatly cared for, therefore she had to yell at him, put sense into him. But that didn't make it right.
It's too late to stop the tears that leave, drenching her cheeks in waves of acid. No, friends are what protect you...
Dawning on the thought she scoffs, she was his friend and how much did that help? It pushed him off that roof, she wasn't there to catch him when he inevitably fell. She was always there to catch him, when he thought he was falling she always made sure that she made it just in time to hold him still, to keep him flying.
That permanent destination not a choice, she wouldn't allow it. And now she had, she wasn't in time to catch him. Always scrambling for purchase and subsequently failing when he'd topple over, a breach of propensity. And he had fallen, slipped right through her fingers.
She always leaned, waned on the substantial memory of being there, keeping him up, holding him steady even as the east wind blew and attempted to knock him down. She sucks in a sob, because she had let him down, she wasn't there to catch him right before he hit the ground as always, and now here she was. Standing on top of him, he had already hit the ground, and now he was under it.
Folding her arms as if to hug herself she sighs, the darkening clouds rolling hills over her head, a drop of what felt like water lands on her exposed wrist. A few more leave the sky and soon it's pouring. June still doesn't move, though she should, she doesn't. The least she could do was keep him dry.
Reaching into her bag she pulled out her miniature umbrella. A present from Ms. Hudson last year, saying how June would catch a cold if she didn't start using one. Unwrapping it from its containment she slid it open, the now large coop covered her body almost entirely. Keeping the rain from her stature. Moving from her spot she slants the umbrella over his headstone.
Digging the handle into the ground in the hopes that it would stay in place if there was to be heavy gusts of wind soon. Now vulnerable to the cold and soggy rain she goes back to hugging herself, adjusting the straps of her back to stay up on her shoulder. She was actually happy that it was raining, it fit the mood and managed to hide her tears.
She gives a nod to 'Sherlock' before leaving. She had work in two hours and drive from where she stood was almost three. She'd be a little late, but it'd be the first time, so she doubted she's get in trouble.
She'd be fine…fine? She needed to define the word fine, because she sure didn't feel like it, of course she wasn't exactly using to the word in that context. But it still applied, with how she felt as of right now, falling just like the rain. With a sigh she leads herself over to the taxi she had paid extra to stay, hopping in and embracing the heat that came with it.
"Where to?" The cabby speaks up.
June flashes a fake smile, one believable enough for him not to take offense to. "Great Ormond Street hospital." He nods and pulls away from the graveyard. She takes one last look at him, the black sledge of stone dry as far as she could tell and she almost smiles to herself. Twisting her attention to a more preferable window. Privy in deep thought, a mist that conjoined her in two jolts of fixation and she leans her head against the glass.
His sweet glimmered hues, hard as diamond and steady as stone, shifting in tide as his mood swung one way or the other. His tone, sinewy and burnished like ambered copper, deep and absolute in what he had to say, what he had to offer. Pride practically oozed off him, seeped into any empty corner it could find. But there was that subtle hint of fear, fear of the unknown. Fear that kept him in control. Very few could see that terror that kept him still when needed.
It was what made him human. But if anything made him human, it was the care he held for the ones close to him, he did an amazing job on hiding it. Because alone protected him, but secretly she knew he enjoyed her company, enjoyed Ms. Hudson's and Lestrade's like a golden swept honey that was a fixture just for him.
The laugh that he would imitate, that real, real, laugh he'd shower her with when she had said something obtuse or had given him a much needed reaction to his expected but brilliant deductions, or when Greg would give him a case. Let him take control of the situation with open arms because Lestrade trusted him.
That laugh when Ms. Hudson would deny them her servitude, even as she made them tea and lunch with a smile on her face. A tentative smile breaches her walls at the memory, realizing just how mundane life had been, ever with a man like Sherlock.
A light flutter cramped the small space in her chest, forcing what sorrow that had been left to leave. These memories, these events are what she would remember, what she would keep of him, not just him…not just him falling.
He was gone, and she'd have to accept that…
Wouldn't she?
It would take time, she knew that, but she would heal. She knew she would. She would keep him tucked away in her chest, in that sly pocket and hold onto whatever memory she had suppressed for the past five months under the influence of her ever growing desolate glum.
She didn't expect to get over what had happened so quickly, but with that thought, with the way she had just remembered him, the way he had shown his care, that smile that would unexpectedly crawl onto his lips, that burnished laugh that'd examine the room around him, she knew she was finally ready. It would hurt, it would pain her but she'd finally soar without wanting the waves to crash her down.
As much as she didn't want to move on it was the healthy, right thing to do. And she was sure Sherlock would want that for her too, right?
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Thank you for the comments, follows and favorites! It means so much and really helps urge me to continue writing! There were two comments left by Wink and a guest. I was unable to respond, I honestly have no clue as to why, but thank you so much for leaving one!