|John Watson internationally smuggles tea (imhisblogger) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2012-08-31 19:44:00
|Entry tags:||john watson, rose tyler|
Who:John and Rose
Where: The Park where Sherlock fell.
Warnings:Possible triggers, suicidal thoughts.
It should have been so easy, walking, breathing, working. It used to be easy, he remembered. Molly had stopped even trying to reach out to him, and he didn't blame her. All they had in common was a corpse. After everything that had happened, if he were in her shoes he'd have wanted to die too. Hell he did want to die a lot of times and he wasn't in her shoes. Sherlock had commented how plain she was, John never really understood why he cared or noticed until recently. It meant Sherlock had accepted Molly. Paying attention to obnoxious details was his way of caring. He'd done the same to John time and time again. Woke up, annoyed John. It had become routine, one that John missed dearly. (I don't have a heart, I have you John. As a conductor of light you're unbeatable.)
John's anger had died down, turned into something more numb. Going through the motions of life. Some days were better then others, today wasn't one of those days.
…You know he wouldn’t want you to be sad. That was what they all said. John wasn't particularly interested in what Sherlock Holmes wanted. If Sherlock wanted something from him he could have been there and asked him for it. But he wasn't. He'd drugged him and left him alone. John had begged him not to leave and well, he couldn't even do that.
He wanted to cry, he wanted to break down but John Watson didn't cry in public. He wouldn't. It was unacceptable. Even as he stood in the park where his friend took his last breath alone he refused to cry. It was ridiculous. He stood in the grass, stared into the abyss. John flexed his left hand, it had been becoming increasingly more difficult to use these days. He should have kept his routine, it was easier then this. He was no longer able to be the John Watson he once was, no longer able to smile and pretend everything was all right. His best friend was dead. Nothing was all right. Everything was quite the opposite really.
Sherlock Holmes was dead and there was no room for one last miracle this time.
Starring down at the exact place where he'd found his friend dead with Lexi tending to him, he reached for his gun. Gun in his hand, he stared coldly at the spot. Live for him. His hand shook, it never used to shake, he was a sniper for Christ sake. His finger on the trigger, he closed his eyes. You absolutely deserve to keep living. He cared more for you than anyone.
Darkness fell over the park, civilians had long since departed. John didn't move. The warm summer breeze touched his skin, but he barely even felt it.
He'd tried to visit Sherlock, but the truth was he didn't deserve to. Twice he'd lost him, twice he'd failed to protect the most dear thing to him. John felt ill. His knees buckled and he slid into the grass. Gun down in his lap and tears streaming down his face. His hand pressed to his face trying to stop tears from flowing. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair.