Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 12

John could feel his heartbeat in his palm and his breath rake through his chest. He lay down in front of Sherlock’s door, a blanket wrapped closely around him, and hand trapped underneath his head. He could feel a faint presence of Sherlock. As long as he didn’t actually go in the room, and see it empty, he could pretend that he was still here. Behind his eyes, he saw Sherlock’s blood stained face, mouthing hateful and tasteless words at him. He fought to keep his eyes open, but eventually he failed… and slept.

Sherlock stood before him, his hand caressing his cheek. A faint smile painted his lips. “Sherlock,” John laughed in relief. There was no reply. “Sher?” The detective smiled widely, his eyes glistening and sparkling with happiness. Blood started trickling down his forehead. It ran idly down his face, cascading around his eyes and dripping onto his shirt. John tried to step away, but his feet were glued to the spot, and Sherlock still smiled into his eyes as he slowly melted into a puddle of his own blood. Drip by bloody drip.

John woke, gasping, and the feeling of falling was almost too much for him. In more ways than one. His eyes were now red rimmed from crying, in his sleep apparently, and the once magnificent liquid blue was now dulled and empty. He had stopped eating. Not that he couldn’t, he just forgot to most of the time, or didn’t feel like it. He could hear the rain faintly splatter on the roof, getting heavier by the minute. Suddenly, lightning cracked an instance of light, and thunder rattled the window panes. The rain was heavier than ever, pelting down on the poor flat. He couldn’t remember if the forecast had called for rain or not. Of course, his conscious mind noted how ridiculous that sounded. Whether it called for rain or not here it is, he scolded himself. He squirmed on the floor to peek at his wristwatch. 4:20 AM. Could he withstand another few hours of sleep? He shook his head at the unvoiced question. Couldn’t risk another nightmare. His mouth tasted bitter, light an old sock, and his back and neck were aching from his time on the hard floorboards. Unwelcome thoughts pushed their way into his brain. You deserve it, they hissed. He screwed his eyes shut and rubbed them a few times, trying to scrub away the sleep. He slowly sat up and brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping the blanket further around his aching shoulders. He stared into the inky darkness, unable to see anything but his imagination. He could have sworn he had seen a familiar shadow at one point. He let his eyes fall shut again, and he squeezed them tightly, scrunching up his face. Why did he go? He couldn’t help but blame himself of course.“You machine!” he had yelled. Yes, he decided it had to have been his fault. He was furious with himself. His pent up anger, over the last few months, came rushing through him. His eyes were blazing with anger, and he threw the blanket off himself, slamming his fist into the dry wall. His wrist cracked deliciously and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, drawing blood. He cradled his hand to his body, tears bleeding out of his eyes, much in the same way his knuckles were bloody. He could feel that was broken, along with the fist shaped hole in the dry wall. When the pain simmered down to a dull roar, he looked at the hole, and he could faintly see something white contrasting the dark room. He shifted onto his knees so that he could reach into the hole with his good hand. His hand touched a silky plastic bag, and he manoeuvred it out. He furrowed his eyebrows and quickly unzipped it, pulling out a piece of paper. It was a letter.

A/N:

It's really late, tell me if they're any typos.