|John Watson internationally smuggles tea (imhisblogger) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2012-12-06 02:52:00
|Entry tags:||florence trumper, john watson|
Who:John and Florence.
What:Aftermath of the fighting and all the ptsd issues.
When:Thursday morning, probably 10/11amish
After all the fighting had died down and John checked on everyone he could, he escaped to his room without much of a word to anyone. Two days later he was still virtually MIA. He didn't leave his flat, hadn't said much of anything on the boards save for to check on Harry. He just didn't feel like talking. Kat had come to visit during the ptsd attacks and managed to help him calm down a bit. He was grateful but he still just felt like being alone. He was trying to sleep but nothing happened. He laid up on the couch for what seemed like an eternity but his eyes refused to close. A million thoughts ran through his head. From what had happened during the battle to what Jacen had said. There was no way he was getting sleep. He was trying. Genuinely trying to get back to normal. All he'd wanted to do was help Rose to keep moving, he hadn't told her to stop grieving or that she shouldn't. He just didn't want her to die too. Yet he ended up the one wrong. No matter what he did it was wrong and he was confused, angry, and hurt.
He felt bad that Rose had lost her friend and Jacen had lost his daughter, he really did and had said so but somehow it had only made things worse. He began to wonder if maybe Jacen was right. Maybe Sherlock had died to get away from him and John was tired of it. What was he supposed to do? He'd already said goodbye to his Sherlock, he knew he was dead and he wasn't coming back. So why was that not right? What was he doing that was so wrong? John had Sherlock's scarf in his lap. He felt better for a while. But not because of it, because he was emotionally shutting down. It was only providing a minor comfort.
John had turned off his phone two days ago. If Rose wanted to see him, she knew where he was. Other then that generally he just wanted to be alone. He got up from the couch with a slight limp and prepared a pot of tea. He hated this world. Right now he hated it more then anything. There were some people that were friends sure, but most of it just sucked. He waited for the tea kettle to whistle in silence, and that was the worst part.