John's P.O.V.
I woke up in a cold sweat the next morning. I threw off the sheets, needing to get out of that goddamed house. It was too large now, but back when it had been Mary and Sherlock....
I shook my head, grabbing the teapot. I go through the routine so mindlessly, I don't realize I've poured two cups. As I pour one down the sink, sorrow hits me so hard, it literally knocks the wind out of me. I'm left there gasping for air, and when the teacup hits the floor, shattering, I'm out the door.
I'm not sure where I'm heading, but I know I'm going somewhere. My mind subconsciously takes me to the hospital, and up to the rooftop.
This is where it all started.
Where Sherlock had left me to deal with losing my best friend. What had gotten me to meet Mary. And now, I had returned. It was like living my worst nightmare over and over again.
Stay where you are!
His voice had sounded so desperate. Was it all an act? Had he ever honestly cared about me? I highly doubted it. Sherlock only cared for himself.
When he had met Mary, it had been a breath of fresh air. She had cared. She had made me laugh again. Made me happy.
And both had left me.
Sherlock was still here physically, yes, but emotionally, I wasn't prepared to deal with his insensitivity. Six years ago, yes.
God, had it really been six years?
Six years since I was running down alleys, jumping on rooftops, and giggling in the face of danger.
Six years....
I walked over to the ledge of the rooftop and peered down. A hard cement sidewalk greeted me. Sherlock had never told me how he had managed that fall.
"Thinking about joining her?"
I jumped, and stumbled back. Mycroft stood behind me, looking down at me over his nose in disapproval.
"You've been following me." I accuse him. He just shrugs it off.
"It never ceases to amaze me what people will do out of love."
"Yes, because love is a chemical defect that you don't suffer from." I snark back. He has no room to talk. He kept his brother from being hanged after shooting a man dead. He cared too.
"Mmm." His phone beeps and he pulls it out, reading the texts, his eyebrows elevating slightly. He tsks and drops it back into his pocket.
"Somewhere to be?" I want him to go away. I want to mope in privacy.
"Just the usual."
"Top secret being usual."
This banter is unnecessary and I want him to get to the point or leave. He seems to pick this up, and clears his throat.
"You can't do it you know."
"Do what?" I have a slight feeling I know exactly what he means.
"Jump. Shoot. Drink. Die." He sums it up in four words.
"Thanks for the advice." Sarcasm does seem to tick him off a bit.
I have succeeded, and he huffs. "I mean, you can't do it, because of Sherlock."
He had surprised me with this.
