|John Watson internationally smuggles tea (imhisblogger) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2013-10-29 02:34:00
|Entry tags:||armand st.just, john watson|
Who:John Watson and OPEN or it works as a narrative
What:Downward spiral of thoughts.
When:Tonight around midnightish. Sleep? What is sleep.
Where:The city and then the cemetery
ooc note~ John won't be returning to the inn until probably the afternoon of the next day unless someone does want to tag in :D]
The longer he stayed at the inn the more of a risk he was. He was putting every single one of his friends in danger just by existing, and it was maddening. Each of them kept telling him the same words, he was stronger than that. He was stronger than what? Stronger than the man that had taken the life of his best friend? Possibly, but the demon?...he severely doubted that. Mentally was probably a different thing all together. As he walked through the city, umbrella in hand he passed by several bars. Several chances he could have taken for the easy way out. Each one a little more difficult than the last but he kept walking. He needed the air. Every time he was inside somewhere or stopped walking he felt like he couldn't breathe anymore.
He needed to get out of his head.
John was more tired of Moriarty than any one of them could imagine. Death threats week to week were exhausting. Draining really. He knew all about mind games and yet he felt the demon tugging at him. Not physically but mentally just a little bit more each time. How long was it going to be? God he wanted to be stronger than that. He desperately wanted to. And yet he was out walking past midnight as though it were the last thing he could do to keep himself sane. He didn't even know where he was going, he was just getting as much space between him and the inn as he could possibly get. He had his phone, but it was on silent. He didn't have much of a voice for chatting.
He was tired of feeling. Sherlock told him once that his emotion would get him hurt, and he was right. John didn't want to admit it, he was supposed to be the human component of the two but maybe Sherlock was right.
It opened him up to be manipulated and used and hurt and he was angry. He was angry at everything. He'd only just recently begun feeling like himself again when Moriarty was shoved back down his throat like a bitter medicine. Why woudn't Kansas let him move on? Every time he got back up that city did it's damndest to knock him down again. Why did Sherlock continue to haunt him not only in dreams but now even with his eyes wide open? Was this payment for something he'd done wrong? All he'd done was be his friend.
All he'd wanted was another chance, and instead of a miracle it ended up being a curse.
He had walked toward the cemetery, but he didn't enter. He couldn't bring himself to. He was almost sure Moriarty had men there, snipers. And if he didn't?..so what. What did it matter?
He just watched by the entrance, letting the chill of the night numb him through. Numbing was easier than feeling.