Work Text
It's been some time after Reichenbach. John doesn't even know how much time has passed.John doesn’t seem able to move on, neither does he want to. He starts to allucinate. Against what everyone would expect, he thinks one day, he doesn’t see Sherlock, even though that’s what he most desires, instead who he sees is a little girl who he doesn’t recognize. She’s got the brightest red hair John has ever seen and the prettiest eyes well, the second most beautifull, she always dresses in baggy white clothes. She’s always looking at him, and smiling at him. The image of the girl wasn’t as clear at the start. In the beggining, he only could catch glimpses of her: her red hair, her shy smile.Curiously, the more John sank into darkness the most clear he could see her. Instead of finding this unseattleing, he find it somehow reassuring.One day, when it had been months since John had put a feet outside of 221b or had let anyone put a feet inside of 221b. She appeared in front of him. Always with that little smile. Now, John knew, he was so far down that he might even be able to speak to her. So he gave it a shot. “Who are you?” voice just above a whisper. “You already know me, John” she smiled again.And then it strike him, like a lighting in the darkness.
Please God, let me live.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Oh God” it was true. John knew the little girl. He had seen her. He had met her many years ago. In one particular day in Afghanistan. While he could barely move looking at the sky, begging to a God to let him live, although now he was doubting of his existence. He saw her right then and there, when he could barely stay conscious. She was smiling. And he could see her so clearly, in contrast of all the blurness that was becoming his reality... He remembers thinking about her smile, about how it maybe wouldn’t be so bad to die if she accompanied him. It was reassuring. But it only lasted an instant, before darkness came to claim him. When he woke up in the hospital bed, he couldn’t remember any of it.***But now. Now he remembers. He remembers how she only appered when he was about to die. “Are you… Are you God?” he mumbles.“Oh no! You silly. I’m your protector” the girl laughs. “We protect humans during their life and show them their way through death.”“Bu… but how…?”“We remain invisible for all of our human existence. So as not to upset them with things they won’t understand” The girl became serious. “The closer our human is to death the more they are able to interact with us.”“So if I’m having a full conversation with you…”“It means that you’re very close to death, John Watson.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
John would be lying if he said that that came as a surprise. Somehow he knew, somewhere deep down, he already knew that the end was near. It was not that he sensed that he was going to die, it was just that he didn't see the point in living. In fact, he would very much prefer ending all of this, his life, rather than continuing living this pointless existence. That's why he was keeping everybody far from him, because he knew that these kinds of thoughts would be scary for any sane person that would listen to them, the thing is that John didn't find them scary, they were simple and plain facts. And, possibly, that would have scared the visitor more than the thoughts by themselves. Now he understood Sherlock.
Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.
John knew he was depressed. John knew he was suicidal. John knew he should seek help. The problem was that he didn't want to. What is the point in providing help to a man who doesn't want to keep on living? And, on the contrary that many would think, the situation that John was in wasn't because he could not carry on without Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock was the most important part of his life. And the time that he was able to spend by his side was the best that John had ever experienced. He wasn't always happy with the mad detective. Of course not. He had cried of joy, and shout out of anger, he had laughed, he had felt. He had been alive. A thing that he didn't seem to have felt since he came back from the war. It was the guilt that was slowly killing him. The last conversation that they had in person. You machine! The words still stung. The question that torment him day and night, that didn't allow him to sleep, made him throw up every bite that achieved to swallow.
What could have I done different?
Would he still be alive if he had begged? Would he still have jumped if John hadn't shouted at him? Did he die thinking that John hated him?
Would he have jumped if I had tolled him that I loved love him?