One-Shot Fanfiction: Thrown
I don't write many fanfictions and when I do, I'm terribly self conscious about them so I never post them. XD; But I've been into the BBC Sherlock for a while now and I really like writing as John. This is just an extremely short, angsty little one-shot/drabble of John post Reichenbach(or is it spelled Riechenbach? I fail as a Sherlock fan!) falls. I guess it could be considered a character study? I'm not sure. Make of it what you will but its not beta'd, its not Brit-picked and I honestly don't think its long enough for it to be bothered with on either account. I wouldn't mind feedback... but I won't beg for it. Eitherway, enjoy. Oh! Obviously this does contain spoilers but it might be vague enough not to worry about? Read at your own risk, I suppose. Very depressing as well. Um... Enjoy?
When mum died, John threw himself into Medical School.
When dad died, John threw himself into the army, into Afghanistan.
When his career died and his sister started drowning herself in the drink, John threw himself into Sherlock Holmes.
When Sherlock Holmes died, John did too.
It wasn't in the literal, physical sense. He was there, his body went through the motions. But as the blood pooled over the concrete and the pulseless wrist slid from his grip, his soul and mind went somewhere else temporarily. It was like dying really. There was a huge, indescribable pain in his chest, like the tearing of a bullet through a shoulder or the last gasp of breath from a hanged man or the sudden, sharp pain of a stopping heart. And then there was nothing but free-falling, of denial and loss and where do I go now's.
There's supposed to be a flash of light or something when death comes knocking. John realizes that light is the life leaving you. He saw that light and it wasn't till much later, sitting barefoot at their... his... their flat in 221 B that he took the time to ask,"Why am I still here?"
He hadn't cried, not even at the funeral or at the therapists or at his last visit to the grave. He'd sobbed, he'd broken to pieces, but he was a soldier and the tears never came. Never.
When Sherlock Holmes died, John did too.
When mum died, John threw himself into Medical School.
When dad died, John threw himself into the army, into Afghanistan.
When his career died and his sister started drowning herself in the drink, John threw himself into Sherlock Holmes.
When Sherlock Holmes died, John did too.
It wasn't in the literal, physical sense. He was there, his body went through the motions. But as the blood pooled over the concrete and the pulseless wrist slid from his grip, his soul and mind went somewhere else temporarily. It was like dying really. There was a huge, indescribable pain in his chest, like the tearing of a bullet through a shoulder or the last gasp of breath from a hanged man or the sudden, sharp pain of a stopping heart. And then there was nothing but free-falling, of denial and loss and where do I go now's.
There's supposed to be a flash of light or something when death comes knocking. John realizes that light is the life leaving you. He saw that light and it wasn't till much later, sitting barefoot at their... his... their flat in 221 B that he took the time to ask,"Why am I still here?"
He hadn't cried, not even at the funeral or at the therapists or at his last visit to the grave. He'd sobbed, he'd broken to pieces, but he was a soldier and the tears never came. Never.
When Sherlock Holmes died, John did too.