The Sociopath Society

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

I can never forget, I can never forgive

A person lay on the ground. Limbs splayed in awkward positions. Eyes, unseeing. Face... so white. Like a ghost, a sheet. Unnatural, the face shouldn’t look like that. Blood streaked the skin, leaking out along the tarmac. Staining the blue striped scarf and black coat. Drying into a brown crust of jet black curls.

Someone was standing over the body. A shadow. Impossible to make out any of its features, who it is. There is a certain sadness to it and a certain similarity. It bends down to corpse, touching it. Then only the shadow remains. Slowly it rises. Its head looks up from the ground. Eyes pierce into all those that are watching. Eyes of so many colours they are impossible to count. Dead eyes.

Then falling...

John woke with a start, in cold sweat. His breathing was coming out in short gasps and he tried to calm himself down. Tried not to think about it. Tried not to remember all that had happened a week ago. At the school. Tried not to remember... Sherlock.

A sharp stab of pain shot through his chest. His heart. He felt like it was being ripped out all over again. Every night it grew back just to be destroyed. By the nightmares that continually plagued him. He could not even think His name without it all coming back. The tears were already welling in his eyes. The grief swarming his mind. He would have thought that after a week he would no longer be able to cry. He would just become numb. Unable to feel anything.

There was no point in going back to sleep now. John was beginning to feel the effects of consistently being unable to sleep, yet it did not aid his plight. He barely ate or talked to anyone, always feeling exhausted. Physically or mentally. He wished he could escape the world. There was no world without... Him. Sometimes he contemplated it. Thought about taking one of his dad’s pistols and just ending it. But he didn’t. Because something told John that that wasn’t what He would have wanted. He would have wanted John to continue.

But John found it so hard. The last time he had had any contact with anyone outside his family had been at the funeral. Lestrade and Molly had been there also, having become His friend. Apart from that there was Mycroft, a woman John assumed was His mother and a few other relatives. Not very many people. John had had to hide his tears. Didn’t want to cry in front of such an emotionless audience. They didn’t seem to care. Didn’t seem to care that someone they were related to had died. Had committed suicide.

John only did the bare minimum to survive. He knew his mum was worried, his dad was worried and hell, even Harry was worried. But he couldn’t bring himself to pull out of the depression. Mum had signed him up to see a therapist. John wasn’t looking forward to that. Even the prospect of going to university no longer seemed great. Not without Him. Knowing He was gone from the world.

Molly and Lestrade had texted John a few times. John hadn’t replied. Not yet. He couldn’t bring himself to face the human contact involved. Even if it was just words on a screen.

Another thing John avoided was the news. He had made a mistake of reading a local newspaper the day after. The headline had read ‘Psychopathic drug taking teenager commits suicide.’ There were others like it. It increased John’s grief and instilled anger into him. Because no matter what He had said at the end, during that final phone call, John wouldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe that he was a fake. A drug addict, a thief, a murderer. He didn’t believe any of it. Because JM, James Moriarty, he had set it all up. He existed. He had to exist. John knew he existed and that He had taken his life for a reason. For a purpose. John just wasn’t sure what. And he wished it hadn’t happened. Wished he could have done something to stop it.

Eventually light filtered through John’s windows, though the new day didn’t bring him any new hope. It would just be like any other. He would get by it before attempting to escape into the realm of sleep only to be haunted of nightmares. They always ended the same way. With falling. There were quite a few different scenarios. Sometimes it was just a memory, watching him fall from the building. Sometimes it was John that was falling. Sometimes John was falling with Him.

And sometimes... John was the one that pushed Him off. Watched from the top of the building as he collided with the ground.

But they were all so painful. John could barely remember what it was like to not have a continually ache. A dull, mental ache. John had loved Him. Had loved Him with all of his heart. He didn’t think he would ever love anyone else. That he had the capacity to. John had planned to spend his entire life with Him. Now that wasn’t possible. Had been ruined by a single, fatal blow.

Things could have been so different. They should have been so different. John guessed he shouldn’t dwell on that. He should think about the future. But it was so hard! He had never imagined a future without Him.

“John! Get out of bed and come and get breakfast! Also, you have a visitor.” John sighed, slowly standing. He had been sitting on the bed, knees drawn against his chest and head lying on them. He wondered who the visitor was. Probably Lestrade. Or maybe Molly. Both had his address and had been trying to contact him since... the fall. John didn’t want to go down and face whoever it was. Didn’t want to face them. But he had to.

He would just have to move on. Forgive and forget. As if it had never happened...

The End

To Be Continued in the Struggling Sociopath