Warning: There is a small amount of blood and minor drug use.
8th September
John awoke to pain. Both of the physical and emotional side. This was how it had been for the past week, he would wake up and for the whole day he would wish for nothing more than to sleep, to die, to have some sort of release from the crushing grief he felt. His family was dead. He had lost everything. He couldn't think, he couldn't even move to expel his growing energy. What was there in the world for him to return to. He had no wife and no child, both had been ripped from him. His beautiful wife with whom he had cared so much for was gone. Never to see the light of day again. Every breath that he took hurt knowing that it was one over Mary. Every breath he took was one his daughter would never get the chance to take. The world was no longer filled with colour. It was dreary and dull.
John had fallen into a dark pit which he didn't think he would have the energy of ever climbing out of again. His heart was gone and there was nothing that he could do. Mary's dead body was seared into the backs of his eyelids every waking moment of his now miserable life and was filled with grief and self-loathing. If he had just acted quicker, if he had just shot the stupid woman. But he had been foolish. He had believed that Mary could not die that they would figure out a way to get them all out alive. He was stupid. And so this was how John now spent his days, tunnelling ever deeper into that pit which he didn't think he would ever get out. He was lost and the only person who was still alive the only person with whom he could still talk he hadn't heard a word from. The only good thing from this had been that Sherlock was alive. He was not dead. But John could not stop his growing anxiety and worry for Sherlock. It had been a week since Mary had died and yet he had not seen or heard a word from Sherlock since then. He now had another of his lives to owe to Sherlock because if it hadn't been for him he would be dead now. John had been extremely lucky; the bullet had hit him in his right side but had only just clipped the large intestine. He knew that he would be able to walk soon with most of the damage being inflicted on his muscle. And yet he just could not find the energy in him to care whether or not he would heal. There was simply no word to describe the pain and grief that he felt. And the only person that he had left to talk to was not here. He was aware of the fact that Sherlock surely blames himself for Mary's death, likely thinking that he should have solved the case faster.
John wished he could see Sherlock, just even if it was to explain to him that it was not his fault. Sherlock had been run dry by the case as it was and he shouldn't try to bear his apparent failure on top of that. Sherlock had been both mentally and physically exhausted when he had showed up at his doorstep. John held no grudge against Sherlock. It was because of him that he had even known that something is wrong. Sherlock gave him the last minutes he had with Mary. It was because of Sherlock that the last thing Mary saw would have been his face.
John was nothing but grateful to Sherlock and he wished he could tell him so, but he had not even received a text message. John worried for the fact that Sherlock had receded to his mind and that he would not return.
As another day ended for John and he lay awake in the bed which had become his home he grieved and he mourned. He had no family and his future was gone. Mary was dead. And John was losing hope.
***
10th September, 2017
Sherlock sat in his chair with his eyes closed, sitting perfectly still in the dark. The silence of the flat was eerie, everything was unmoving and silent. Whether he had been sitting there for days or years it did not matter to him in the slightest. His harsh words would ring out in the ears of anyone who came near him Mrs Hudson couldn't get a word from him whenever she came near, Sherlock would lash out with his harsh words, commenting on her inability to shut up. He had been lost within himself for what felt like merely seconds, yet conscious time was moving at some pace. He wanted no interruptions and he was too hurt and vulnerable to ever let anyone in again.
Sherlock clasped his hands together upon his lap as he stared blankly into the room, the flat felt bleak like there was no longer warmth. It was never the same when John wasn't there. He would never admit that he had come to rely on the comforting presence of John Hamish Watson. Caring has never been an advantage and it never saved anyone. He stared defiantly at the chair across from him in denial, John was his friend and he had lost his war. Sherlock had become attached, Mycroft had always told him not to become attached and he had. He was a fool. The empty chair taunted him as it sat there, silent and abandoned.
Closing his eyes again he sunk back into his chair.
For so long, the definition of a 'friend' had meant nothing to Sherlock, he had never cared enough before. Caring was a weakness. It opened you up and left room for distractions and yet, John Watson had managed it. Love was a human error and to have one meant something was wrong. An error in a machine stops it from working, and that's what love was, the fault in the machine. In Sherlock's mind love is a virus and infects its every move. The existence of fault meant defeat.
To Sherlock, love seemed like falling glorious and exciting until you hit the ground. And how John had made Sherlock fall. Again and again he had fallen and John had always been there to help him up. But this time John had fallen and Sherlock was not there. How could he be?
The hole which had been ripped through him had been his fault, human error. He had let himself become attached and all those around him had been ripped from him. Caring is not an advantage. Sherlock had let things slip through, he had lost control and now distractions were getting in they were clouding his mind, worry, fear, grief but he refused to let them in. He would not give in to such weaknesses of the mind, it needed to be clear. Emotions were something he did not understand or had ever wished to, and yet John had wormed his way into Sherlock's heart, perhaps without even realising it. Even though Sherlock refused to admit it, John had entered his heart and he never saw the signs.
When he finally opened his eyes he found himself surrounded in darkness the empty chair in front of him merely a shadow. It had been empty for a long while, yet when John had still been here Sherlock had always known he would eventually return to sit there. As he lurched to his feet not caring for the noise he made Sherlock shuffled, stumbling towards the messy kitchen. Each step he took he was aware of a stabbing wrenching pain in his left thigh but it seemed far off and he took no notice of it.
He looked down over the cold meal Mrs Hudson had brought not knowing how long ago it was that she had brought it. He picked a piece up and half-heartedly chewed on the cold food it seemed tasteless and dull nothing like the food John occasionally cooked. The memory of him hurt, the usually bright kitchen and hearty fire, the excitement of the chase. It made the world so dull now. There was nothing to occupy his racing mind, there was no calm everything was moving. Sherlock's mind could not stop there was nothing to keep him focused, no one to. He even missed Moriarty, it gave his mind a thing to focus on there was no excitement in the world now, no way to expel the spiralling energy that encompassed his every move. Sherlock just wanted it to stop he wanted the pain to stop, but there was nothing left for him to escape to.
"There is just NOTHING! Nothing here, nothing anywhere." He shook as he paced up and down the kitchen his hands constantly moving, wringing them together, clasping and unclasping. "I DON'T UNDERSTAND!" screamed Sherlock lashing out across the table flinging his arms down onto the tabletop, throwing the items around the room. His hands felt clammy and anger was coursing through him. Anger and grief were the only things Sherlock felt now, it was a constant loop, he just wanted it to stop he wanted his racing mind to subside. He cared for nothing of anything, the one thing he had always cared for was gone and his simple existence seemed to be insulting. He was the expendable one, he had always been the one no one liked and yet the one good thing about him the thing or person rather that had made him better was gone.
As Sherlock looked down towards the food again he saw it was now longer there, shattered glass littered the ground around him and Mrs Hudson was thumping up the stairs shouting, "Sherlock! What's happened?" her clattering noise disrupting his thoughts. His hands stung and his voice was hoarse. "Mrs Hudson SHUT UP! Your 5 pounds are showing." The pounding on the steps had stopped. "Go back downstairs and clean, make use of what's left of your small brain," Sherlock muttered to himself.
Looking down at his shaking hands and trembling body Sherlock murmured "Now even my body is betraying me." He had always thought it weak when people's emotions were betrayed by their body and now look at him. He considered himself to be quite stable at the moment, at least that is what he thought and tried to continually convince himself. But even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't fool himself he knew that love had blinded him and he knew that it had led to his destruction.
In normal circumstances he would never have said such harsh words to Mrs Hudson but he did not care. The cold hard exterior that he had always prided himself on seemed to be nothing but dust now and he could not help but scramble to try to piece himself back together in feeble attempts.
Dimly as he turned away Sherlock heard the footsteps retreating. The glass covered the ground below him, little shards everywhere, disregarding it Sherlock stepped across the kitchen, the glass cutting into his feet. He walked numbly out of the kitchen and onto the stairs, still shaking and stared up them.
He had never been in John's room yet he felt now was the time, it was his last connection to the great man who once lived there so long ago.
His walk was slow as he shuffled up the stairs. He didn't have any desire to stay in the too silent remains of the flat. His feet ached and yet he didn't care the pain John had felt must have been much worse. He stopped on the landing, slowly opening the door to the one room he hadn't been in, he stepped over the threshold and into new land.
It was dark and silent but it still held the scent of the brave soldier that used to reside within. The room was devoid of any decoration there was nothing to look at in the dark room. Sherlock took a few steps towards the bedside table, his limping paces were the only noise in the room, everything ached in his body. His mind and body were running on his determination not to stop he didn't want to give in to the knowledge that he was too weak to understand emotions.
Layers of dust coated everything, it had been so long since John had been in this room but Sherlock still clung to the faint traces left by the last inhabitant.
Sherlock threw one of the drawers open, flinging the papers and various items out of the drawer, he could feel the restless anger simmering just below the surface. Again there was just nothing, nothing to distract his racing mind. Sherlock spun around and faced the tall wardrobe sitting against the wall. Where had caring ever gotten him, it had polluted his mind, it was no longer the clear calculative mind that he had prided himself on for so long. Sherlock had attempted to take on emotions to understand them but they had only gotten him so far, such things as love and hate they stopped you from choosing the correct path.
The indecisiveness of his mind he was sure was because of the grief that ripped at his torn heart. He had born witness to many tragedies and had felt the dull ache of a broken heart but he had always locked it up in himself and forgotten about it. This time he could not do it he had tried again and again to regain his former self but he could not do it. He had finally gone too far and become attached and now he was left in pieces. The constant thoughts that surged through his mind continued in their everlasting loop with no end in sight.
John had never a been person in the way, he was the other perspective, John's loyalty had been what Sherlock relied on. John hadn't been like other people he was smart and he had proven himself to Sherlock on multiple occasions. He had come to need that conformation as to how the world around him would act, how to react to the world. But now he was gone and what was he supposed to do now. John had seemed an eternal spirit and Sherlock had always assumed it would be him not John but in a way he figured it had been him. Sherlock flung himself at the wardrobe his whole body collided with it knocking the tall doors off their hinges, yelling he punched wildly at the walls and ripped the clothes out of the wardrobe. What had he become, the grief he felt, the hole in his heart for what function did it serve "WHAT IS IT?!" Sherlock was lost he saw no reason for the pain and grief. He felt emotions only clouded the mind's eye and look what was happening to him. There was no escape from the spiralling depth of the emotions he felt. He was physically and mentally exhausted and there was nothing for his mind to lock on to but the memories and the grief they brought.
But Sherlock couldn't deny that he had let the emotions in for better or for worse but he had and that was when he had finally achieved his highest moments. Sherlock had had distractions for his brilliant mind and a loyal friend who was addicted to it all the same. A brave caring man who had loved the danger just as Sherlock did. He had been at the height of his life solving cases one after the other Sherlock had just started to see the mutual need for human compassion when everything had fallen apart. John, his friend, his colleague was gone and it was all because he had become attached. Sherlock had known that if your enemies saw love as weakness then you could be manipulated by it. He yet again struck out but this time he hit the walls, he hit anything within his reach striking everything. Sherlock's hands stung with the pain and everything around him dropped away. It was just the anger coursing through him fuelling his jerking movements as he threw objects across the room. He could feel wetness on his cheeks but there was no one to see. Everything seemed so useless, every act he had ever taken all the risks he took to caring had led to his downfall.
John had no need for any of this anyway he was gone and Sherlock had failed. For the first time in so long he had failed, those he had held so dear to him were gone. He had tried so hard to not care to not give in to the inevitable weakness it brought. Sherlock looked down at himself shaking and sweating his feet were covered in blood, he had somehow managed to re-open the stiches in his leg and everything around him was scattered over the room. John would have stopped him; he had been the calm in the storm of Sherlock's mind but he was gone. That's what John had been to him the constant in his ever changing life and he had sworn to himself to protect him at any cost and that had meant hurting John before. He had hated it, for the first time in forever he had felt what it means to hurt someone else. He had encountered a problem he couldn't solve.
The only thing left to calm his mind was the drugs, but he had even failed in that. Sherlock had sworn not to turn to drugs when John had been there but it was so hard when he was gone. So hard to resist the urge.
Realising that there was no point being in the room any longer and wondering why he had come he decided to leave. The smell, the way everything was orderly all brought back memories and with them grief. He did not want this, he wanted a release from the confines of his once great mind and torn heart.
As Sherlock turned to leave the room something caught his eye. It sparkled in the light from the stairway but it mustn't have been there when he entered because he would have seen it, it must have fallen out of something when he had thrown everything into disorder. Sherlock took a few stumbling steps towards the object which lay on the ground before him. As he reached it, he knelt down onto his knees and picked it up. But as soon as it was in his hand he recognised it for what it was, a syringe. Sherlock's heart dropped to his stomach, his breathing became heavy each breath was a struggle to fill his lungs. Why did John have a syringe in his room and why for that matter was it his. Sherlock's hands shook and his muscles felt weak as he lifted the syringe to the light to see if liquid was still in it. In the dim light from the hallway Sherlock could just make out the liquid in the syringe.
It was full, it hadn't been used. Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh of relief at least John hadn't taken it. But now his mind turned to the obvious. His solution was right there, the key to leaving his emotion stricken and destabilised mind even for a little while. It was right there in his shaking hands. Sherlock didn't know how long it had been since he last had had some sort of fix whether it was through a case or drugs he wasn't sure. But the urge was so strong.
Sherlock sat there in John's room surrounded by his broken belongings holding the syringe just looking at it. For how long he didn't know, he sat there not moving simply considering his options. He just wanted the pain to end. The grief he felt the hole in his heart was tremendous. Whenever he thought about John his heart clenched and felt an insurmountable rage in his heart knowing that there was nothing he could do. If he took it, then he wouldn't have to worry about caring or failing or feeling anything but that would mean that he would be disrespecting John's memory. Sherlock had had someone in his life who had taken the time to care for him to show compassion but that didn't change the fact that John was gone now and there was nothing left for him.
And yet to him his life seemed to be an insult to John's memory, why was it that the worthless prat that everyone hated was still here, sitting on the ground in a torn and disorderly world.
Looking down at the syringe Sherlock made up his mind and he started to lower it. Towards his leg where he pushed it into himself. There was a slight sting in his leg where the needle was but he could feel his body relaxing as strange warmth spread through him.
For a few seconds nothing happened, he could simply feel the strange warmth that spread through him from his legs and the happiness that it would end even for a while. Pleasure at the thought of a final realise clouded his mind but in the fringes he could still detect the regret at his actions yet he did not care much for it.
His mind was slowing and he managed to take out the syringe again as his body relaxed and the world blurred at the edges. Why should he care what John thinks he wasn't here and he couldn't stop him, Sherlock just wanted his mind to focus on something else apart from the grief and his failure.
The syringe fell from his loose grasp, his body felt warm and he at ease. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and his eyes started to droop and black splotches appeared in his vision the world around him was fading into blackness. He couldn't feel the pain in his body and his mind was blissfully empty of worried thought. Sherlock fell towards the cold wooden floors the syringe beside him and his mind was shutting down he would finally have some peace and quiet even for a small period time.
As Sherlock finally closed his eyes he hit the ground and there was nothing.
Authors Note
Sooo how was that one? This chapter is actually my favourite. I originally wrote this first and just as a one-shot but ideas just seemed to explode from there. So I hoped you liked this chapter if anyone is actually reading but anyway I really loved writing this chapter and I hope that you enjoyed reading all the feels.