Author's Note: I'm trying a new thing called one update per fanfiction per week. At the moment this is manageable cause it is not the end of the semester yet when I expect to be very busy. But hopefully I'll be able to keep up with this. I think I can. So here's the next chapter!
John felt sick, his stomach throbbed from more than just the gunshot wound. It was still sinking in, the utter shock of what had just happened still enveloped his entire being. It was nothing like he had ever felt before.
John Watson felt numb.
The world around him would have been warm, comfortable for an average man, but John did not feel a thing of it. Not the soft bed beneath him, nor the warmth from the fire. He felt none of it, he felt nothing. Nothing, but cold, empty and lost. How had it all happened? How had everything gone so wrong?
"John? Is there anything I can get for you?" Mary asked sitting on the edge of the bed. When on earth had she appeared? There was a look of concern, of love in her eyes. It was for him, the concern and love, all for him. Nothing phased him, he could not even bring himself to smile. "Do you feel ill?"
"Mary I'm fine." Lie. "I'm just tired, that's all." A lie. "All I need is rest." A bottle of scotch and a pack of cards perhaps… "Don't worry about me." Another lie, he was fairly certain she should worry.
"Are you sure?" She was worried, the tone resonated in her voice; it made him feel sick again.
"I'm sure." Something was missing he was not all right. There was a gaping hole in his heart. Something was missing that had been there and was now gone.
"If you need-"
"Mary please just leave." He was short with her, she looked hurt, but it did not affect him at all. He felt nothing. She left and he was alone again. Completely and utterly alone.
Tears stung at his eyes, and he tried to convince himself it was because of moving back to Mary's flat after leaving…leaving… Oh who was he kidding, he knew why he was crying, he knew why there was a feeling of loss, the horrible feeling of loneliness. He had lost the one person he had cared about more than he should.
Sherlock was gone. Sherlock hated him, wanted him out of his life. The quirky, unique, brilliant, and psychotic man he had spent so much time with had kicked him to the curb, tossed him out like he was garbage.
Sherlock who had done so much for him, had taken him in after he was injured in battle…He had had such a look of hate and heartbreak in his eyes…
God Sherlock…it's not true… I didn't stay with you out of pity…You're one of the most important people in my life. Why would you believe her?
He turned his gaze to the darkened window and stared out into the black night. No stars. No moon. Nothing but darkness. It felt like a part of himself was missing. And a part of it was. Sherlock wasn't there. The man who kept saving his life wanted nothing to do with him.
Sherlock Holmes was the only reason he was still alive.
His hands were trembling. A doctor's hands shouldn't be trembling. They had to be steady, able to do the delicate procedures that would save a man's life. He was nothing, broken. Defeated. A murderer. He had let people die. He had killed them. He was nothing. There was nothing for him.
He leaned heavily on the crutches they had provided for him. He had been found unfit for duty and they had sent him back to England. Two years of service and a stray piece of shrapnel had ended that career.
His eyes were on the ground, the dock beneath his feet damp with seawater, his leg throbbing painfully with each step.
"Doctor Watson I presume?" A voice. A voice that sounded so very familiar. John looked up and stared in disbelief.
Sherlock Holmes grinned, standing there directly in front of him. "I told you I would find you…"
It was to much. John took one step forward and fell against the other man. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him as tears began to fall down John's cheeks. He was in so much pain, emotional and physical. The scars were deep.
"It's all right. Come now follow me."
John let himself be led away, leaning against the other man for support. He didn't know nor care where he was being taken, so long as the one familiar thing the one familiar face stayed there.
If John had had the energy, he would have confronted Mary right then and there before going to talk to his dear friend. But the wound in his stomach was still throbbing from the bloody carriage ride. Not only that, he had a bad feeling that Sherlock would respond violently if he showed up. After all he had drew a gun on him.
It would take time, but John would apologize. With or without Mary's knowledge. He couldn't lose Sherlock, he just couldn't.
Have I broken your heart yet? I hope not! Reviews are loved!