The Game Is On (Johnlock)

Letting Go

Hey! It's me again, and I have a question. Would you guys mind if I started putting songs that are relevant to the chapter for you to listen to while you read? I find it easier to focus on the words when there's background music, and I was wondering if you guys would appreciate that, too. So let me know in the comments if you would or wouldn't, and vote or follow if you like them! I love you guys. Onto the story!

As per usual, inspired by Pinterest.

and_here_you_are xoxo

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Every night you visit me, Sherlock. Sometimes in dreams. Sometimes in nightmares.

I can't understand why I can't let go of your memory. You jumped off the hospital's roof, leaving me behind. You jumped, leaving me to deal with the damage you'd caused in your wake.

Maybe it's because I need to see you, even if it's just a playing picture in my head. Or maybe it's because I'm unable to forgive myself for not talking you out of it. That makes sense, right? Of course it doesn't. Nothing makes sense anymore. At least, not since you left.

The worst ones are the happy ones. The ones where we're sitting at home, drinking tea in our respective chairs and working on our separate projects. Those are the worst because they remind me of what it used to be like, what happiness felt like. It felt like running through London, examining a body, making deductions. It felt like home. A home that I can't get back.

Almost like clockwork, three years have gone by. 1095 days without someone being offended by an accurate deduction you've made. 26, 280 minutes without you yelling "Bored!" and shooting a spray-painted smile on the wall. I stayed at 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson still brings tea every morning. It tastes too bitter now, too strong. Maybe I'm too weak since the jump. I can't drink tea or coffee black. Isn't that pathetic, Sherlock?

Your violin is still where you left it. I tried playing some of your music, but stopped when I found a copy of sheet music titled John's Lament. The bow dragged gently across the strings and a melody worthy of a cancer film echoed through the sitting room. It sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. Did you write it, Sherlock? If you did, why was my name in the title? Still in a haze of grief, I drank away my headaches and feelings so that I wouldn't hurt anymore. It always worked. A little too well, sometimes.

Molly and Greg told me to go back to my therapist. You remember them, right? You were always calling Greg something other than his actual name. I listened. I went to a new one, though. Ella was a bit too familiar with my past. I was afraid of what she might tell me. The new one is nice. She's kind, which is what I need. Someone kind-hearted and friendly that won't pressure me into talking. I mean, it's her job to get people to talk but she doesn't push me into it. She lets me go at my own pace. I told her yesterday that my best friend was dead. You are. You have been for six months. I told her that you committed suicide, that you'd jumped off a building. It's the truth.

I went for a few drinks after the session. Greg came with me, and we both drank until we forgot what we wanted to. I forgot how devastated I was over you and he forgot whatever it was he needed to. The pub had a band playing; they were fairly good. You would've hated them, I know you would've. They were too honest, too caring, too real. You hated when things matched the real world. I think that's why you hated yourself. You were too honest for your own good, too caring to not have a heart, and too real to be left behind. I had one line of lyrics stuck in my head for weeks. The hardest part is letting go of the nights we shared. They appeared at random; they appeared in my mind when I was doing somewhat okay, feeling somewhat better.   

How could things have gone so wrong? Mycroft told me that you need help sometimes. I didn't believe him because you seemed so together, so . . . I don't know. So prepared? You were prepared for anything and I took that as a sign that you were okay. Then he told me about the danger nights and how he didn't trust you to be alone. I always made sure that I was home before 10 at the latest. I tried to make things better by staying with you around the times that the world got darkest. Did it help any? I wish it did, but that's a waste. I know it didn't. You wouldn't have jumped if it had. Right? You wouldn't have jumped off St. Bart's if being there had helped you. It's just my mind trying to think of ways that could make things better for myself. You were the only person that knew how hard things could get and tried to help when they did.

I guess what gets me the most is that you tried to make things okay, but then gave up. You never gave up, despite being told by several people that you should. Sally Donovan was right. There was a body on the ground and you did put it there. It was your own. I didn't believe her for one second. I always believed in you. I remember when you thought I believed Moriarty. It surprised me, because I didn't even think that he was right. It hurt that you suggested I believed him over you. How could you possibly think I believed Moriarty, Sherlock? I would never, ever believe Moriarty. Who would? He's a monster. He tried to blow me up in a pool, remember? You got us out of that one. I wasn't surprised. You always get us out of sticky situations, although you get us into most of them. The important thing is that you get us out. I've always trusted you, always. You're my best friend, Sherlock. I didn't get the chance to tell you. You'll never know that. 

I heard another song in the cab the other day. It was sad and kind of quiet, which made me think of you. Almost everything makes me think of you now. It's everything you wanted, it's everything you don't. The lyrics reminded me of us. I don't know why, but I couldn't help but think of us when I heard it. I think it was called Holding On and Letting Go. Ironic, isn't it? I can't let go of you and you couldn't hold on. I almost started crying in the cab. The cabbie had to ask if I was okay. I told him I was fine, just remembering someone that had died. He was sympathetic, and dropped me off with a discount of 50%. I didn't want him to do that, I hate pity, but I took it anyways. It's the same reason I can't look at Molly for very long. She was in love with you, you know. I am, too. I have been since the day we met. I think that's why I'm having such a hard time letting go of you. I love you so deeply that the emotions I associate with you won't go away. Maybe one day I'll get over you, find someone, and marry them. But that's not happening.

It's not happening because I'm giving up. I'm not cut out to live life without you, Sherlock. You made everything better. If I hadn't met you that day, I would've shot myself. I was on my way to do just that when I met Mike Stamford. And now, you've jumped off a building and I'm drinking myself into oblivion. That's not healthy, Sherlock. You know it's not. If you were here, you'd make some deduction in an attempt to cheer me up. But you're not here. You're dead and nothing can bring you back. I've taken to listening to your voicemail to hear your voice again. All it does is make me want to cry and drink even more to forget you. I could never forget you though, no matter how much I want to. That's why I'm doing this. It was your favourite way to escape the real world. What a better way to die than by something you loved? I loved you, Sherlock. I still do. I always will. So this is to the life that you lived, and to the life I lost. Maybe now I'll be happy. Maybe now I'll see you again. It's been almost two years, after all. Don't you think two years is long enough? I can't wait to see you, Sherlock. I'll be there soon. Very soon. 

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I almost cried writing this. I hope you guys enjoy it, too. If you need to talk to anyone, I'm almost always on, so just message me to talk. I'll try to help as much as I can, because I know what it's like to feel like nothing's going right. I love you guys, stay safe, and see you soon. 

and_here_you_are  xoxo