Chapter Text
Usually I don't have any problems when it comes to processing information, but the thing that just happened right in front of me, was something beyond comprehension.
The moment it happened right in front of me, it felt as if my mind just disassociated body, floating away, not being able to reconnect.
What the hell just happened?
I remember a thud, and heavy breathing, so loud that it became clearly audible.
I saw the police officers dash forward to take hold of the old woman in front of me, arresting her without any hesitation.
Then I heard a familiar voice, but it was shouting, repeatedly, for the woman who just fell in front of my eyes.
John. He ran to the Mary, who just took a bullet for me mere seconds ago. She was bleeding out on the floor.
The Afghan war had imposed its own severe effects on John, and he came to London in order to escape it upon discharge. But I think based on what I just saw and experienced throughout these years with my best friend, he didn't receive much bliss but instead torment.
I think it's my fault.
During the funeral I remember seeing John sitting alone in the front row. Then Mrs Hudson and Greg came to comfort him as he cried endlessly. As for me? I wasn't invited, as told by Greg. So when I came in secret, I made sure to only watch from a distance, especially at John.
A few weeks later, we don't see each other anymore. He returned to his own home while I returned to mine. Each time I tried to call John it goes straight to voicemail, and he never replied to them.
I can't think of how heartbroken he has become. If I wasn't such a chatterbox perhaps the outcome could have been altered. If I was the one who bled out right there on the floor John would still be able to lead a life with Mary and Rosie.
From what I heard from my brother, Mycroft, John has locked himself in his home, and hasn't been keeping himself together.
"For the last time, I haven't been sleeping at all. I tried.. but I can't.." John repeated himself, clenching his fists. His therapist took note of this, and nodded slightly.
"You have to calm down, John. Getting aggressive won't help you." The therapist spoke in her soothing voice.
"I'm not getting aggressive." John insisted, sighing. He leaned back in his seat. There's this heavy feeling in him he can't get rid of and it's been there for weeks. It's like a mix of all your emotions as they turn into one huge blob determined to weigh you down.
"Well then, do you want to tell me what you feel at times?"
"Feel?" John widened his eyes slightly and his mouth turned into a sort of sarcastic smile.
"Yes, John. Please be honest."
"If you say so, then.. you know.. not so good things. It just isn't pleasant to say them out loud."
The therapist didn't respond verbally. She nodded her head with a small smile while John tried to avoid eye contact and focus on other objects in the room.
"So, how about your friend?" The therapist asked, hands crossed on top of her notebook. John shot her a look of disapproval and disbelief. He tried so hard to forget about me and had successfully done so but his therapist just brought me up like that.
"I don't want to talk about him." John muttered. The therapist took note of this slight shift of behaviour in the doctor, and realised that she made a mistake. She geared the conversation back to something he was comfortable with. But is there anything he was truly comfortable with anymore?
To John, the atmosphere of this room is dull and gloomy. It seems like everywhere he goes feels like that now. When he saw his wife dying in front of him, at that very moment, all the colour in his world disappeared. But really, isn't black and white colours too?
"You know, at this.. point. I have no idea what to say anymore." John mumbled in a way that the therapist almost couldn't make out what he was saying. "It all feels like one big blob, and it's disgusting."
After the session ended, John bid the therapist farewell and shut the door again, once again disconnecting himself from the outside world again. Lestrade and Molly had tried getting to him, but all their calls were ignored. I didn't even bother trying, because I know he wouldn't pick up.
With quiet filling the living room, John turned to see a vision of his departed wife staring at him from the opposite side of the coffe table.
"Well, I still can figure out why you are here." John muttered in frustration. The vision tilted her head slightly and spoke, "I wish I could help you, but you know I can't."
John turned his head away to avoid eye contact with the vision known as Mary. Of course he is completely aware that she is not real, just a figment of his imagination.
Feeling the weight of his emotions combined with his exhaustion due to his inability to sleep, the doctor slightly slid down the couch and leaned his head back, closing his eyes in hopes of being able to drift off for just a few minutes. But the poor fellow wasn't at peace with himself with all those conflicting emotions raging about in him. He was sad and depressed at the same time furious with me. John had no ides how to get out of this feeling, this terrible, terrible feeling.
When he sat back up properly, he looked up to find that the "Mary" was still there, observing him like how I would.
Tears began to fill the heartbroken man's eyes. He cupped his face in his hands and the sobs he had been trying to hold in all spilled out around him. It was purely inevitable. He was at his limits afterall.
"Oh John." Mary mumbled, then stayed quiet for the rest of the hour.