Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 11

A/N: Trigger Warnings...

Not many people could hurt John Watson, physically, mentally or emotionally, but Sherlock managed it with one jump.

He sat on the floor, outside of the late detective’s door, never able to open it and walk in. The bags under his eyes were now more prominent, and his eyes themselves were dulled and washed out. His finger drew circles on his knee idly, anything to distract himself from crying. He played with the lighter in his hand, flicking his thumb, igniting it and letting it go out again and again. An idea forced its way into his mind, and flooded all other thoughts away. Do it. It prompted. Do. It. He flicked the flame into life again, and let it dance on its pedestal. He let it live for a full minute, before letting it go. He quickly pressed the metal into the palm of his hand and hissed in pain. He finally pulled the lighter away, and watched as some skin peeled away with it. Both his hands were shaking, and his vision was blurred. The constant pain that he felt deep inside had been faded away and he leant his head back on the door, sighing. Basking in the distracting pain in his hand, not in his heart. The pain slowly faded away and he was swamped once more with that emptiness. He flicked at the igniter again, the sparks flying, but was disappointed when it didn’t light. Knock, knock.

“Who’s there?” Not Sherlock.

“J-John? It’s Molly. Can I come in?”

John raised himself to his feet, stumbling to his chair.

“John? John, I’m coming in,” she sounded worried.

He sat down, quickly pulling down his sleeve and picking up last week’s newspaper. The door burst open, and he tried to look up nonchalantly.

“John! Thank god,” she breathed a sigh of relief, “I thought you must have… well I don’t know what but I was worried”.

“No need to be worried, Molly. I’m fine,” he replied tersely and looked up to see her piteous frown. He scowled. “Don’t look at me like that, he warned and she looked around for somewhere to sit. She moved to sit in Sherlock’ chair but saw how John tensed up, and resolved in sitting on the floor. He returned his gaze to the old newspaper, pretending to read, looking for a distraction from her worried stare.

“John…,” she started.

“What Molly?” he snapped and she flinched, “Sorry,” he said, reverting back to his kind heart.

“Are you okay?” she asked and John looked at her for a second before looking away.

“Of course I am, yeah,” he replied, far too quickly.

“John…,” she warned.

“I’m always okay,” he repeated, firmly. Molly couldn’t tell if he was reassuring her or himself. His palm stung, almost unbearably, and he mentally begged that she’d leave him. On the other hand, he didn’t want her to go. He didn’t want to be alone.

“How have you been?” he asked, suddenly feeling obliged to.

“Oh… same old… I..,” she began, but cut herself off.

“What?”

“I.. I miss him,” she finished, looking down. John felt a twang of both grief and jealously.

“So do I… more than he’ll ever know”

Molly looked up at him. “You loved him, didn’t you?” she accused, a faint smile on her face and John’s eyes widened.

“I don’t feel like talking about him, Molly,” he saved and her eyebrows furrowed.

“M’ sorry,” she mumbled and John pitied her.

“It’s fine”