Broken Men

To Live Would Be An Awfully Big Adventure

That night, John laid in bed, tossing and turning for hours upon hours. He looked up at the ceiling, the only light in his room coming from the moonlight that shone through the curtains he had left drawn. He sighed, trying to will his brain to stop chasing thoughts around his head and let him sleep. Instead, his mind created scenes of him and Sherlock together, in the flat, working on cases...the last day with him.

No, he inwardly cringed. Anything but that. He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, blinking as his eyes burned from the harsh light that filled the room. He opened the drawer of the nightstand to pull out the sleeping pills he had been prescribed, but instead found his hand hovering over the handgun he kept there at all times. His breath stopped as he ran his finger over it, feeling his heart stall for a moment before picking up double-time. He closed his eyes as he picked it up, appreciating the heaviness of it as he became light headed from not breathing.

Sometimes, although he would never admit it to Molly or Mrs. Hudson or Ella for that matter, he would stay up until the early hours of the morning clutching the gun in his hand, fantasizing about putting it to his temple and ending it all. But he would never bring himself to do it, there was too much he would be leaving behind for him to go through with it. Harry had just recently stopped drinking and seemed to be doing well, and if John were to be gone, he knew she would spiral back the way she had when their parents died. Molly and Lestrade tried so hard to bring the light back in his life, and Mrs. Hudson had adopted the role of his mother, essentially nursing him back from the dead.

So he would only fantasize about it, never do it. There was just too much at stake.

Instead he placed the gun back in the drawer and picked up the pills, shaking 2 out and swallowing them dry. It burned all the way down, getting stuck in his throat and causing him to cough violently for a few minutes. Exhaustion plagued him and he laid down again, shutting of the lights and turning to face the open window, letting the moonlight fall in squares on his bedspread. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and sleep took over him, his breathing turning slow and even, his face and limbs relaxing. The pills always did this to him. He considered them an escape from his reality.

The next morning he woke up feeling peaceful and rested. He stood up slowly and walked to the window, his hand resting lightly on the window frame and he watched people walking about the sidewalks and cars driving slowly down the street. The sun was out breaking through some clouds and it was warmer than he would have thought possible in London. He glanced at the clock and saw he had slept past noon. He made his way to the bathroom to shower and change his clothes and 20 minutes later found himself closing the front door of the flat and walking onto the sidewalk.

He had no real destination in mind, just wandered around instead observing the people in the taxis driving past and the people walking around him on the sidewalk. When he passed the park he stopped for a few minutes to watch a basketball game and a few children kicking around a football. He leaned against a tall oak tree in the shade, taking the weight off of his foot and pretending that he was just a normal man living a normal life.

Hours later he found himself standing across the street, staring at St. Barts. He didn't know how he ended up there or why, but he knew that he was frozen, his eyes glued to the roof. He didn't have to go across the street to know that there was a large brown stain in the grey concrete of the sidewalk. He'd been seeing it since that day in his nightmares, the images haunting him and refusing to leave him. His head bowed as sadness overtook him and he tried to shut his emotions down, not wanting to unravel right then and there.

That hadn't been the first time he had been back to St. Barts. He had come back a few months after it had happened, at the insistence of Ella and Mrs. Hudson.

"John, you need to go back to it, back to where it happened. It will help you move on with your life." Ella continued making notes on her legal pad while John waged a war with himself.

He heard the same thing from Mrs. Hudson when he returned home. "John dear, I think that therapist of yours is absolutely right." She brought him a cup of hot tea while he sat moping in his chair. She sat across from him holding her own cup and taking a sip.

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't see how going back to St. Barts is going to help me at all."

"Well love, just revisiting it will help you in the long run. Eventually you're going to hve to go back. You can't avoid it forever."

He thought about it, mulling it over in his mind. He knew logically she was right. Eventually he would find himself back there for one reason or another, be it for something for Lestrade or to get something for Mrs. Hudson. The last thing he needed was to have an anxiety attack. Mrs. Hudson didn't wait for his response.

"Tomorrow you'll take lunch for Molly. God only knows that girl works too much and doesn't eat enough."

"Like Sherlock" John said softly, more for himself than for anyone else.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him sympathetically. "Yes, in some regards she is. But she's so different from him too. I think we all have a little bit of Sherlock in us."

John sat there thinking of what she said, long after he heard her get up and place her cup in the sink and leave the flat. The sky outside grew dark and the air grew cold, and yet he sat in the chair thinking. There was a truth to what she said. There was a little Sherlock in everyone that knew him. He just wasn't sure what parts of Sherlock were in him.

The next day he found himself walking slowly, cane in one hand and bag lunch for Molly in the other. He stopped dead in his tracks across the street, looking up at the same spot on the roof that Sherlock had stood. Had jumped from. His breathing became ragged and came too fast, making him get dizzy. His heart sped up and he felt the urge to sit down. He dialed Molly, getting impatient as it rang out and leaving a short, hurried message for her telling her he was outside across the street. He placed his head between his knees and took deep breaths, trying to ease the churning in his stomach.

He felt a body sit next to him on the curb, felt an arm curl around him almost protectively, stroking his back. Molly pulled him close and whispered calming words to him that he didn't quite pay attention to, his mind swimming with images and thoughts and trying to calm himself. Eventually he got up off the floor and walked back home to 221B Baker Street slowly, letting himself into the flat and collapsing on the sofa without eating.

That had been the first and last time that John had gone back. He avoided going anywhere near it if he absolutely had to, and the times where he could not avoid it, he walked hurriedly past, his eyes cast downward, focusing all his energy into something else until he was a block or two away and could look up again, letting out the breath he didn't remember holding.

Until today. Today, he felt awkward standing across the street looking at the building. He felt himself move into the street, eyes glued on the spot. Before he could put together a coherent thought, he found himself standing directly below. On the ground, a large brown spot. He knelt down and placed his hand there on the spot, his fingers tingling.

Suddenly it didn't hurt him anymore. He didn't see the sidewalk as the place where Sherlock ended it all. He stood up slowly, placing his hand into his jeans pocket and blinked a few times. He knew he had overcome something big today, had most definitely made progress in healing. He knew one day he would be able to walk by St. Barts and not flinch when he saw how tall the building was, or how much it must have hurt on impact. One day he'd be able to stand on the roof of a building without feeling an aching loss spread through him.

One day, he'd be able to live again.