Broken Men

Chapter 1: Dreaming of Broken Men

John once remembered something that Mycroft had said to him what seemed like an entire lifetime ago. It had been the first time he had ever met mycroft, or rather the first time mycroft had ever kidnapped John. He had said 'when you walk with Sherlock, you see a battlefield.' A battlefield indeed. But while living with Sherlock had been frustrating and trying, even at the best of times, John's life without Sherlock had been nothing but bloody torture. without Sherlock, John was waging a battle every goddamn day of his life trying to keep going.

There were days, days that were perfectly normal for every other person, that seemed to hit John so hard he was physically unable to move himself and he would lay wherever he was, choking back tears. There were days he felt like giving up on everything, of pulling the trigger and ending the suffering. And there were days where he figured he should just move out of 221 Baker street for good and not look back so he could just move on with his life and try and pick up the shattered pieces.

He hesitated though on both of those things, in hopes that Sherlock would manage to come back one of these days. That he would just walk back into that sitting room, sprawl himself on the couch and begin whining about being bored. So John stayed, even though he knew it was slowly killing him inside to walk past the stacks of Sherlock' s things lying about. Indeed, he couldn't leave 221 Baker Street even if he wanted to. He had tried once before and had come back to it eventually, for this had truly been the only place that has felt like home in a long time.

In the months following Sherlock's death, John had not once cried in front of anyone. The day that Sherlock had jumped, John had turned numb as he stood over the fragile and broken body of his best friend, watching the blood pool around his head like a halo. He watched as people gathered around the fallen man and he was pushed away, his heart shattering and shedding itself up inside. He could feel the tears forming but forced them to stop, telling himself that this was neither the time nor the place, and that he could mourn later. At the funeral, he stood to speak as his best friend's coffin was lowered into the ground and again stifled the hot tears that had began to form and were threatening to spill over. That night, he and Mrs. Hudson arrived home in exhaustion, Mrs. Hudson's face tear stained and her eyes red and swollen. Still John did not cry. He waited until she had patted his shoulder and departed to her room before walking slowly and defeatedly up the stairs, paused at Sherlock's door to look at it, and continued on to his room where he shut the door and collapsed fully clothed on his bed. It was then that he allowed himself to cry and pray and scream silently that he had stopped himself from doing. Only then did he allowed himself to grieve and mourn Sherlock.

The next morning he woke up more exhausted than he had been the night before, and after looking at his pillow, figured that he had spent the majority of the night crying. He sat up, rubbed his face roughly, and stiffly detached himself from the bed. He stumbled to the bathroom, cranked the heat all the way up in the shower, practically ripped his clothes of with shaken hands, and stood under the hot stream of water not moving until the water ran cool. He shut the water off and remained standing there without moving until a violent fit of shivers racked his body and threatened to collapse him to the floor.

After he was dressed he moved very slowly to the kitchen and prepared his tea. He was sitting at the table clutching his cup before he stood up and grabbed the bottle of brandy on top of the fridge and dumping a large portion into it. He spent the day sitting in his chair in the living room watching the telly until late at night. He shut off the telly and began toward his room before pausing and turning down the stairs. He took a deep breath before pushing open Sherlock's door.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room and he made his way to the bed. He sat down gingerly, tears welling up in his eyes. He layed down on the pillow and the unmistakable scent of Sherlock stung his nose and pushed him over the edge. He fell asleep with tears streaming down his face, clutching the pillow to him and dreaming of broken men in long jackets and dark red stains.

He began his routine the following morning. Wake up in Sherlock's room, trudge up the stairs, stand in the shower until the hot water ran out, make his tea, and sit in living room watching crap telly until nightfall. Trudge back down the stairs, curl himself up in a little ball and wait for sleep to overtake him. Repeat the following morning.

This went on for months without anyone knowing the wiser. He rarely left the flat, and when he did it was to run out for something quick. He felt no desire to engage in any smalltalk with Mrs. Hudson, and she looked on with sad and knowing eyes as the man before her was slowly being destroyed by grief and depression. It was her that found John on many occasions passed out on Sherlock's bed, face gaunt and eyes swollen with tears, clutching Sherlock's pillow and crying out in his sleep.

It was Mrs. Hudson that watched day in and day out as John shrunk into himself and become increasingly small. And it was Mrs. Hudson that with gentle insistence, encouraged John to go back to see Ella his therapist that he had long since stopped going to.

He attended therapy two times a week, and Ella sat there, trying to look inside John's subconscious. She had already come to the conclusion 20 minutes in to their first session together that John was laden with grief and guilt over Sherlock's death. She could also see that him remaining at 221 Baker Street was doing nothing for him in the sense of recovering. It was her suggestion that he move out, at least for the time being.

"And how does that make you feel?"

John thought long and hard about this question. He was silent for almost 10 minutes before he said "I guess I have nothing to lose."

That weekend he packed his things up, looking round at Sherlock's things gathering dust in the corner of the room. With a sigh, he made his way slowly down the stairs, pausing at Sherlock's door and shutting his eyes before continuing down and out on the street. He had already said his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson earlier when he told her he was leaving.

"I'll keep everything nice and ready for you when you return."

"Thanks , Mrs. Hudson. But I have to tell you, I'm not completely sure I'll be coming back."

She patted his hand while they say there at her kitchen table drinking tea. She peered at him with aged knowing eyes.

"It'll still be kept ready for you."