Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 23

He layered on a cheerful façade, so that she wouldn't be suspicious, and bounded down the stairs later in the day. "Afternoon," he greeted and planted a kiss on her cheek.
"John?" she laughed, disbelieving of what she was witnessing. "Someone's in a good mood?"
"The sun's shining, Mrs Hudson," he smiled, even though the dark streamed through the windows, feeling like a lie. "I'm just heading out, gonna visit Greg, haven't seen him in a bit," he smiled and Mrs Hudson nodded.
"Be safe," she called after him.

It's not like he was lying. He was going to see Greg; he just wasn't going to stay.

The greeting had been formal, terse hug and a short huff of air followed by a mumbled apology from avoiding eyes. John didn't mind. He had better things on his mind.

His steps resonated in his mind as he made his way towards the hospital. The sun was slowly but surely waking up. He didn't know what he was doing. He just needed to clean it. He needed to scrub away the blood that had long since washed away in the rain.

Greg didn't know he was gone. He didn't know he's left. His fingers twitched and ached and trembled under the weight of these thoughts.

His heart stuttered as soon as he saw the building, looking at the rooftop, his feet stopped. They felt like lead. His eyes travelled down, tracking his fall pattern, subconsciously. He felt his eyes prick, but he blinked, and kept walking. He made his way onto the footpath, mouth falling open in a gasp when he saw the spot. He fell to his knees.

All he could see was the blood. It snaked around his knees, spreading out and soaking through his hands when he desperately held them to the concrete. His breath hitched, pulsing racing against his skin. He leaned back again, and it was gone. He blinked. His skin heated up, choking him under his jumper, so he pulled it off and threw it to the ground. It slowly sunk into the crimson puddle, back again, from hell.

His breath became laboured as he pushed his hands to the fabric, trying to use it to soak up the blood. He scrubbed at it, rubbing the fragile cloth across the concrete. He scoured the ground, desperately trying to wipe away Sherlock's cause of death. He didn't want to fall. He needed- he needed to get rid of it. He- he needed to get rid of the blood. His jumper ripped, the stitching tearing, fragments of wool catching on the rough ground. His skin itched, so he dragged his nails across his arm, and smeared blood there too. His body faltered, and he scrambled back, looking at his hands.

They were clean, he blinked again, he couldn't sworn he- But no, they were spotless, if not a little flushed from the wind. It swept around his body in angry whips, making him shiver. He turned them over, seeing small grazes where his knuckles had rubbed at the concrete. The ground beneath him was clean, untainted with the cherry-red echo of his only love. He shook his head slightly, disbelieving of what his eyes told him. His mind felt fuzzy at the edges. His back ached, but he leaned down further, hiding his face in his hands. He gasped out a sob. "John?" a soft voice asked. He raised his tear stained face slightly to meet the kind, rounded eyes of his friend, her brown hair falling in front of her face.
"Olive? What are you doing here?"
"I go for morning walks, now. It helps," she shrugged, "What are you doing here?"
He looked down at his hands again, and the shredded remains of one of his favourite jumpers. "I-I don't know," he stuttered. Her face crumpled with pity.
"Come on, kid. Let's get you home," she smiled, helping him up.

A/N:

LOVE ME DAMMIT

Sorry for the massive hiatus and shitty return