Oneshots.

voices in my head (depressed!john)

"All the voices in my head, will be quiet when I'm... dead."

John just can't take any more of it.

+ + + + +

It hadn't been very long since the worst day of John's life. The day Sherlock... The day he...

John lets out a long sigh. If he thinks about him, he knows it will only be a matter of time before his chest starts to heave, and panic would begin to course through him.

John is a doctor, he knows what a panic attack feels like, but he had never known the extent of it. He hadn't known how horribly pain can cripple a person.

Pain has crippled John.

He can't remember the last time he slept in his own bed.

But he can't bring himself to move from Sherlock's messy sheets. Because sometimes if John closes his eyes tightly enough, if he inhales the smell of his best friend from the matress deeply enough, he can picture that Sherlock is still beside him.

"Come back to me."

There's no one next to him, but if John holds his breath long enough that it feels like there is.

"Please, Sherlock."

He knows what this is. It's depression, and it's insanity. It isn't normal to imagine someone's voice in your head. And it's certainly not normal to answer back to it.

The shaking had returned. John's hands hadn't shaken since he met Sherlock, but now it was like his entire body is constantly vibrating.

A piercing prick of pain shot through his stomach. John didn't remember the last time he'd even moved from this spot, let alone eaten or quenched his thirst - despite Mrs. Hudson's constant urging. Eventually she'd decided it was best to leave him alone, as everyone else had.

The lack of food and water had been recently causing John to pass out periodically. It was the only time he could get any sleep, and it showed.

They all expected him to move on. Get out of bed and get on with it.

"Get up." They'd say. "Get on with your life."

But they never understood. John didn't want to move on. If he stays in bed long enough, even if he has to starve to do it, it's all to hear Sherlock's voice, to feel his touch again.

The pillows still smelled like his hair, and his shirts still smelled like his chest.

"Sherlock wouldn't want to see you like this," Mrs. Hudson had said. "He would want you to move on."

"He's not here to tell me what he wants, is he?!" John had shouted back.

That was the last he saw of Mrs. Hudson.

John shouldn't have shouted at her, and he regretted it, but she didn't understand. No one did.

"They just don't get it." John whispers. "And how am I supposed to live without you?"

John's world fades in and out, the starvation goes to his head, and he slips away once more.