John Watson internationally smuggles tea (imhisblogger) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2012-07-30 01:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | john watson, kat warbler |
Who:John Watson Open to Florence or Kat if they want but otherwise narrative!
What: Another break down
When: Late night tonight
Where: His flat
Warnings: Possible triggers, some lingering suicidal thoughts etc. Bad things basically.
Rating:HIGH
Thirteen days. One week, eight days, fifty seven minutes and fourteen seconds. That was how long it'd been since John had lost everything. For everyone else life just went on, but for John Watson it felt like it was at a stand still. The first week Florence had stayed with him but now she was leaving him at night. Thought he was asleep probably, but John barely slept anymore. The only times he really slept were by Jacen's hand. Other times he merely pretended he did just so Florence didn't worry, but he wasn't adjusting. He didn't know if he could. He hadn't even attempted to rearrange the small flat he'd shared with Sherlock, he couldn't bare to touch the detectives things. Sherlock had always hated that. Even Mrs.Hudson wasn't allowed and he barked at her like a maid at times.
It was quiet. Painfully quiet. That was what was killing him.
Even during past times of depression and weariness, it was never like this with Sherlock Holmes. When they first met, Sherlock had told him there were times when he didn’t talk for days on end. But in practice, in reality, Sherlock would always have something to complain about, always have something to deduce, always have something to say. Now there was nothing. Nothing but an empty flat and memories.
John got up out of bed without bothering to turn on the lights and made himself a pot of tea to calm his frayed nerves. He paused and looked at the skulls on the mantle. The corner of his lips quirked slightly upward as he remembered hearing a rumor about the original. That it was Mrs.Hudsons husband. The second was one he'd bought him, it wasn't real and could never fill the void of the original, but it was something. John always tried to make Sherlock feel comfortable whether he was aware of it or not. They were more than just partners, they were flatmates, friends. As Sherlock's only friend John felt a strong sense of loyalty toward him that would never fade, never die, even in that empty flat it never gave him any sort of peace.
That was just like Sherlock.
Picking up his laptop John opened his blog for the first time since arrival. The screen sat empty for what seemed like an eternity. Then finally he began typing.
The first thing you need to understand is that Sherlock Holmes is almost always right about people. I only add the almost because I’ve been so steeped in his twisted scientific method that it seems too imprecise and fatally inaccurate not to. If I didn’t include the almost, the voice that belongs to Sherlock in my head would say, “I expect better than that, John. Stick to the facts. You should paint me accurately, or not at all.” So I will include it, even though it feels a bit wrong to.
That voice is still there, even now after_
John stopped. His hand trembled as he stared at the screen. "Looks like you'll have to find something else to blog about John."
The tea pot whistled eerily snapping John out of his daze. He set aside his laptop and stood. It was supposed to bring a sense of comfort, but John heard only white noise. He released a breath he had been holding and stood to pour the hot water into his mug. Sherlock had left him, he woke up every morning to silence. To emptiness. He was angry. He didn't realize how angry he'd been until the mug he held broke in his hand. Hot tea burning the skin and shards of mug piercing it. He didn't even flinch.
His hand was a mess, the floor was wet. He couldn't be bothered to care about either. Thirteen days, eight hours, fifty seven minutes and fourteen seconds was how long it took for John Watson to realize nothing would ever be the same again. Sherlock Holmes had given him hope, and then stolen it away when he died. John felt nauseated and not just from the liquor he'd been consuming. His best friend was gone, his reason for getting up in the morning in question. He sank down to the floor with his body resting against the kitchen fixture, desperately trying to cling to his sanity and failing. Pulling pieces of porcelain out of his hand, he watched blood trail from the small wounds. It probably should have hurt, but it all felt the same after a while.
They said everything would get better with time. John wasn't sure he believed that, he wasn't sure what he believed in anymore aside from Sherlock Holmes. He'd had a second chance, and even it was taken from him. He wasn't allowed a happy ending. Tired eyes looked over the broken pieces of tea mug. It would've been easy if it weren't for the damned voices in his head.