Time Makes it Harder (JohnLock)

Is This What Death Feels Like?

 Sherlock stares at the ceiling. He can almost physically feel the bags under his eyes, and his senses are overwhelmed, however not in the way he wishes. He still can't deduce, but he can hear the whistling wind on the deserted streets, John's heavy breathing next to him, the knocking on the door... The knocking on the door?

Getting out of bed, he throws a robe over his half naked body and descends the stairs, scratching at his scruffy beard and ruffling his hair before opening the door, not like anyone will care what he looks like.

Who could possibly be here at this ungodly hour?

Opening the door he reveals an unfamiliar face.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Her sweet voice entices him and he opens his eyes a bit winder, trying to see her through the darkness.

"Who are you?"

"Doesn't matter. I need you to come with me." She reaches out her hand and he almost takes it.

"No. Thank you." He slams the door and begins to walk back up the stairs, but the constant knocking makes him travel back down, nervous to wake Mrs. Hudson or John. He closes the door behind him.

"I'm here to help you." She says softly.

"Help me with what? I don't need help. Plus, you don't even know me."

"I don't know you. But I know about you."

"How could you possibly." He crosses his arms and waits for an answer.

"I know you were in the war. The way you hold yourself says it all. The tan on your arms doesn't come past your sleeves and you hold your head up. Probably PTSD since you haven't slept in days. The way you are extra cautious to hide your wrists. It says it all Sherlock." She gives him a smug smile and begins to walk away.

"Wait!" He calls, desperate. "Who are you?"

"Can't say!" She calls as she walks out into the night.

"Wait, come back!"

"I thought you didn't want my help!" Comes the reply. It seems as if the night is speaking to him. A voice without a body.

"I didn't. But... I need to know who you are! How do you know that?"

There is no answer, only his echoing voice through the dark streets. "Come back! Don't leave!" He falls to his knees.

How could she do that to me, then just leave?!

He's unsure how long he stays in the streets, calling desperate for her to come back.

What have I done? I made her leave.

A tear falls down his cheeks and he sits in the streets until the sun comes up and people begin to walk out of their flats, ready to catch a cab, the tube or walking to work. They all give him strange looks and several minutes later a pair of strong hands rest on his shoulders.

"Sherlock, what are you doing out here? I was worried sick when I woke up! Were you sleepwalking? How long have you been out here?" John continues to pepper him with questions as he guides him back into the flat. Laying him in the bed, Sherlock is suddenly very unaware of his surroundings. He can't feel anything, John's voice fades into the background and his heavy breathing is all he hears.

It's such a comfort after going back and from from too much stimulation to very little. The sudden relief of not feeling anything.

What if there was a way to feel like this all the time? Is this what death feels like? She left. I have nothing. Nobody.

The front door shuts. John didn't even say goodbye. Or did he? Did I miss it?

His own thoughts echo in his head, and it's a strange sort of peace.

Yes, this must be what it's like to be dead. 

(A/N Don't worry, he's not actually dead)