Shattered Glass ( JohnLock )

Agony

" Goodbye, John." Those final words hissed through the phone like daggers in the doctors chest. The phone the Consulting Detective held slipped away from his fingertips, and the line the blonde held went soft with choking emotion. ' Please No, No no no...' Johns mind pleaded and Sherlock, with arms out wide, willingly let himself fall into the sweet arms of awaiting death. John screamed Sherlocks name as loud as the knot in his throat allowed with pain tearing at his words. Only silence hushed over Watson's beating heart when the sickening thud of heartbreak echoed the busy street.

Johns eyes flashed open to see the ceiling once more, darkness illuminating the room except for a single street light outside the window to keep him up at night. It had been eight months after that fateful day. Eight months of lonely nights sitting awake waiting on Sherlock to burst through the door with that bored expression of his. He could almost hear that low-key voice as Sherlock returned, not dead. " I didn't believe I could be so successful, fooling my own companions into thinking that I was dead. I have overestimated you John, I assumed you would have known by now even with your delightful dimwit mind that I have cheated death more than a million times and I plan to do so even more for tedious experiments. I was testing you. And you failed. Shame... Mrs.Hudson? Where's the tea...?" Sherlock would say blandly, almost bored with the complete idea he had the world fooled into his tricks. Those days turned into weeks and soon, months had passed by and if John decided to admit it or not, He wouldn't make it to a year without him.

Ever since the jump Johns Ptsd returned, and quite viciously without its needed drug... Sherlock. When he did sleep he awoke covered in sweat just like before with his dreams tainted by the falling body of his friend and awake, he would get memories sitting inside 221B talking with Sherlock, arguing, anything.. And everything reminded him of his curly haired detective. His emotions would burst and once he found himself sobbing in the milk Isle of the market, other times he would find himself in the cemetery, beside Sherlocks grave drunken out of his mind and laughing along with a headstone. Sometimes he caught himself holding a gun to his mouth and Lestrade desperately trying to pull it out. He needed rehab, oh maybe just needed sleep because he had a sick obsession, a delirious drug that made him high enough to soar with the Stars and it's name, is Sherlock Holmes.