Mad World

Verse 1

"All around me are familiar faces

Worn out places, worn out faces

Bright and early for their daily races

Going nowhere, going nowhere

Their tears are filling up their glasses

No expression, no expression

Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow

No tomorrow, no tomorrow"

He closed his eyes and covered his ears with his hands.

             "Stop! Stop! Please, stop."

Sherlock's voice cut out as tears rolled down his face. Memories flooded through his head as he paced back and forth. He closed his eyes hard. Emotions were bad, why was he...feeling? Messages had been sent to his mind palace to delete those long ago. But now he could not control his mind. Flashbacks filled his thoughts.

             "I don't have friends, I only have one." He winked. John smiled, which gave Sherlock this odd feeling inside.

               "Let's have dinner." Her lipstick was a vibrant red color. Irene was something quite special.

           He remembered taking Molly's shoulder and turning her around, the wind from her hair giving him a slight breeze.

Details of his previous flat grabbed his attention. The old hospital he worked at caught his focus, then the pool that John could have died at, then the rooftop that he himself could have died at as well.

Over and over, he kept reliving John's blank stare at his gravestone. He came back each and every Thursday. Sherlock had stopped pacing and instead took to leaning on the inside of a doorframe, which he now slid his back down before sitting. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins before lightly letting his forehead rest against his knees. The tears were silent at first before they turned into audible sobs. Why? Why was he such an idiot?

He should have confronted Moriarty in a different way. At least a way that he would not have had to say goodbye to John. Bags had long formed under his eyes and his skin had turned a new tone of pale. Grief had taken over his life. Sherlock wished that the fall had killed him.

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John was tired of it. He was tired of walking the streets to work and still seeing all of the faces he had on a daily basis. All of them except one.

He should have switched things up by now. As always, he was living in a worn out flat with his land lady, Mrs. Hudson, and he was still going to hospital as a doctor. It had been months since the thought had first popped into his head, weeks since he had actually been considering it. John Watson had been thinking about rejoining the army as a doctor. But each time he dwelled on it, he realized that he could not take it, he would not be able to see death everywhere without remembering the one of his own best friend.

Ever since "the incident," his limp had came back. A few people had asked him about it on his daily commute to work. It was odd to think about people. They were all going on their way and running their own marathon, the death of the magnificent Sherlock Holmes not affecting their lives.

John looked in the mirror. Mrs. Hudson said he had not aged a day, but he felt as though he had grown several years older in the course of two years. He picked up a glass of water from the coffee table as his throat felt like it was beginning to close.

He hated when he felt sad. He wished that Sherlock felt sad, because then that would ensure that he was alive. That would ensure that there would be a chance of him returning to John tomorrow.