We All Fall Down

Already Dead

Three long, seemingly endless months later, John awoke just after noon.  Oddly, this had been becoming a schedule.  The man had almost always been one to wake early.  These days, he had made a routine of late nights at the bar or at home, drinking regardless of the place.  Usually, he stayed in.  He disliked being around people, even strangers.  Of course he’d been told to stop the drinking, that he was slowly killing himself.  He knew that.  Maybe that’s what he wanted.

John sat up, groaning at the pain of yet another hangover.  His mouth was dry or else he’d just have gone back to bed.  There wasn’t the usual tea on the floor, so he had to shuffle all the way to the kitchen.  Luckily, he hadn’t been so drunk that he tossed his cane off somewhere too difficult to reach.

After He had jumped, John’s psychosomatic limp had crept back into his leg.  John didn’t even notice it at first, not until he finally went to see his therapist.  Even then, he refused to use the cane for a long time.  But things  grew difficult without it. 

He regretted going back to see her.  He couldn’t find solace in it.  All it was for him was a waste of time and an exhausting effort to be off of the sofa and off of the alcohol.

                                                ‘’’’’’’’

“Hello John, how are you doing today?”

 John just looked up as if to say “Are you really asking me this?”

“Not any better?”

“Does it look like I’m doing bloody better?” John snapped, only raising his voice slightly.  His response was a sigh and a scribble of words he didn’t even bother to read.  The only reason he came at all was because Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade insisted.  The fact that it was simply a waste of money didn’t even bother him.

He had been back before the funeral, but since then he had gone into a shell, watching as his life wasted away.  He spent the time lying on the couch that He had favored, either sleeping or drinking the time away.  He rarely went out.  When he did, it was to replenish the bottles of whiskey, rum, and vodka that never lasted long enough.

John looked to a wall, knowing that he was being spoken to but simply not caring.  He rested his head on his hand, allowing his senses to dull until the session was over.

He looked down and there was a paper being handed to him.  A prescription for antidepressants was scribbled in neat handwriting.  He took the slip and stuffed it into his pocket, then stood and limped out the door.

                                                ‘’’’’’

“Damn bloody hangover…” he mumbled, opening a cabinet for the headache pills he took daily.  Mrs. Hudson had found the small slip prescribing antidepressants weeks ago, but he refused to take them.  What was the point in feeling better?

Pouring a small glass of water, he took the pills that still scratched angrily down his throat.  He finished off the water and limped back to the couch with his cane.  He didn’t bother checking the time.  Time didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered.  Everything was meaningless.  John closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch in some small hope sleep would take him again.  It did.

John was walking down the sidewalk and talking on the phone.  The dream had come back after too few nights of dreamless sleep.  John knew what happened, knew how it all ended.  John's voice drifted out of his mouth without his consent and a low, broken voice spoke back.  John was talking to Him.  John looked up.  There He was.  Once again, He was on the edge of the building.  Once again, He held a hand out to John that John mistook for a gun.  He spoke the last words. 

“Goodbye, John.”

Once again, John shouted His name.

Once again, John watched Him fall.