A series of one-shots surrounding the duo of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson from BBC's Sherlock.
Inspired by Pinterest, Google Images, YouTube, tumblr, my mind, and the show itself.
Updates will be once every two weeks. I will try to stay on top o...
Maybe once I'm with him, it'll be better. It couldn't get any worse.
Ever since that day, my mind hasn't stopped going. Not even for a second, not even for a case. It's getting harder to breathe without him.
He can't come back. That's impossible. I know that it is, because nothing dead can come back to life. And he's dead. He really shouldn't be but I messed up with my deduction and it got him killed. I don't think he minded getting killed, he smiled when the bullet tore into him. I saw it.
The flat is silent now. No keyboard clacking with his typing, no kettle whistling as he made tea, nothing. It's driving me insane. Donovan already thinks I am, so it doesn't matter. But I shouldn't say that. He never liked me getting insulted by the officers at Scotland Yard, but that never stopped them. Graham wants me to get out of the flat. But I like the silence. It's comforting.
The need for cocaine and morphine has gotten a lot stronger since he left. I've tried to stop myself from using but it got to be too much today. I open the box for the first time in at least a year. Feeling the drug race through my veins, I relax and let it take its course. Images fall into my mind palace at an alarming speed. Him running after me, a woman laying face-down on a grimy hotel floor, a darkened pool and thousands more all appear as if on a screen.
Can he come back? Would there be a way to make that possible? No, of course not. I wish there was. That'd be like Christmas. But Christmas hasn't been the same since. He made it brighter, merrier, happier. Now, Christmas is just the exchanging of meaningless material items of little significant value. There's a few days left until Christmas. I haven't done any shopping, and I most likely won't. Molly invited to her house for a small get-together that I'm nervous to attend. I'm not sure why, but the sight of my old "friends" is going to be hard to handle without him.
My head hurts more often and I've lost weight. All my clothes hang off my frame more than they did before; Molly thinks I need an intervention because of it. I might need it, but I don't want it. The only intervention I'll ever get is if he comes back. And that'll never happen because he never will. I won't get the chance to start all over again. It could be a good thing that Molly cares like she does or I'd be dead. I wouldn't be completely objective to the prospect of my death, but I imagine Graham and Molly would be.
Mrs Hudson still rents the flat to me. I think it's out of pity. I haven't exactly been the best tenant to her. I had to start getting the groceries. It was difficult, I'd never done it before because he had always done it for us. I can't even say his name anymore. I used to say to say it all the time so that I wouldn't forget the way it sounded. Now? I can't even remember the way he sat in the chair that used to sit across from mine in the sitting room. I remember playing the violin for him when he had nightmares so that he'd calm down. I haven't played in close to a year. I tried to, at the beginning, but it was too painful to keep going. I couldn't do it. I still can't.
The shaking came back after two months, the migraines after four, and the hallucinations after six. Walking down the street, I'd think I had seen the back of his head or his jacket coming out of a shop. But each time, it was a woman trying to fit in with a new trend or an older man wearing his favourite jacket as a way to reconnect with his deceased father. Of course I never just made the assumptions; I deduced them off their bodies three or four weeks later. My hands shook too much to be able to hold a pen properly in them. There was a constant ringing in my ears and my vision was blurred. It didn't make sense to me at the time, but now I get it. I missed him. I miss him every single day. I wished he hadn't decided to be the hero. I wish he was here.
I thought I saw him today. But I guess I was wrong. It's the first hallucination I've had in a while, so it surprised me. I couldn't stop myself from running to him, but it was just another person with short dark blond hair. The coffee shop brought back memories that I had suppressed for a really long time. Close to four years now, it's been since he took the bullet to his chest. I miss him like crazy more than ever now. Tomorrow is the day that he died in a warehouse that he had no need to be at. It was my fault he was even there in the first place. I had over-estimated my abilities and had to ask for help. He had this hero complex and I put it into action when I called him for help. That's the only reason he died. He died because I couldn't handle the situation I had put myself into. I couldn't deal with what I had caused and he got dragged into it.
Someone tapped my shoulder while I was walking back to the flat with a bag of milk and some bread. I ignore them and fumble with the keys. A huff of breath that sounds familiar makes me turn around. Standing in front of me was the man I had been missing for the better part of four years. It made absolutely no sense why he was there as the last time I'd seen him, he'd been dead on the floor of an old warehouse with a bullet hole in his chest. "Hello, Sherlock. Haven't moved out, have you?" His voice was still soft and quiet, like a violin melody. Shaking my head, I bent to pick up the keys that I'd dropped in shock. He grinned the same grin that never really left my mind. "That's good. We'll need enough space for the both of us, anyhow." I stopped fiddling with the keys and stare at him. He wants to move back in? After four years, he wants to live at 221B Baker Street with me? "W-we?" He seemed to understand why I was so apprehensive with him. "Am I allowed to come back? It's okay if I'm not, I just missed you and thought it'd be a good way to get to know each other again. I've been away for so long." I know what he meant. I nodded and attempted to unlock the door. But my hands were shaking badly and he had to take the keys and do it himself. "After you, Sherlock." The bag on my arm shook with the force of my nerves. He placed a hand on my shoulder, which somehow calmed me down considerably. "Thanks, J-john. I missed you, too."
Thanks for reading, guys. I know that this one wasn't like the other one-shots, but I had it in my mind and needed to write it down. It didn't start off as a Johnlock in my head, but what better way to get it out than to make it for one of my OTPs? Love you guys.
