Chapter IV: Why?

Warning: PROFANITY, MENTION OF SUICIDE AND DRUGS (mention only tho)

Note: You don't have to read first three chapters to understand this one.

The people have answered and its angst and drama!!!

Other Chapters: You and I

Please feel free to comment, I'm open to criticism. Hope you enjoy!

Low expectations. John always had low expectations from everyone. He learnt a long time ago that the less you expected, the less disappointed you would be. When Harry became an alcoholic and he told her he wouldn't talk to her until she got clean, he didn't expect her to get clean for him. When he went to war, he didn't expect to come back alive. When he developed PTSD, he didn't expect therapy to end his nightmares. When he asked Sherlock for one more miracle, he didn't expect a not dead Sherlock towering over him at an over priced restaurant when he was about to propose.

But then again, Sherlock had always exceeded his expectations, he had never failed to surprise him. Obviously, in death, it would be the same. John knew that. But when he saw Sherlock, when he clenched his teeth as his lips curned in a deceitful smile, as his fingers turned to fists that violently slammed against the table, as he became oblivious to his surroundings, he asked,

"Why?"

John never expected anything from everyone except himself. He expected his walls to stay up. He expected not to fall in love. He expected being safe. He expected not feeling betrayal. But he had disappointed himself. Why? Was it worth it, really?

His mind flashed to the first time he set his eyes on the man and he asked, out of all things in the world,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

His mind flashed to a pool. A bomb strapped to his chest. He heard Irene's voice over and over and over. He listened to Sherlock shout as a man threated to kill John. He payed attention to every tiny detail, every case, every bedsheet ever to be stripped off beds and cloak Sherlock, every kidney in the freezer, every brushing of fingers as tea was ed, every stolen smile, shared, private chuckle, every client, every case, every day he had spent with the man. Sherlock had torn down his walls and John merely gaped as he stepped inside his mind. He watched as he prodded and lounged in his head and smiled at his sprawled body.

Why?

Why did he let all this happen? Why did it happen? Why did Sherlock go? Why didn't he stay? Why didn't he?

There was only one thing John felt in that moment and it was betrayal. The eight letter word he couldn't quite put his finger on.

John wished Sherlock had really died.

He wished he had overdosed successfully.

"I thou- I thought you were dead. Now you let me grieve."

The problem was, John knew the exact moment he let down his walls. He knew the exact moment he had fallen in love. He knew when he gave Sherlock the power to hurt him. He just didn't know Sherlock would ever use that power. He ed the pool, ed feeling Sherlock would do anything for him.

It's just, if John did let his walls down. Why did Sherlock have to break everything he had hidden inside? How could he break everything he had hidden inside?

"How could you do that?"

"How could you?"

Sherlock started to babble incoherently until finally he said, very clearly,

"Are you going to keep that?" Indictiting John moustache with a grin. Mary chuckled.

John wanted to curl up in a hole and die. He wanted to go on the top floor of Bart's, call Sherlock, tell him this was his bloody note and fucking jump of the building. Sherlock grieved. He wanted Sherlock to feel the pain. He wanted him to feel used and forgotten and needy as fuck. He wanted him to see John everywhere, he wanted it to fuck up all his relationships, he wanted him to endure all the sympathy and eventually the numbing feeling of nothingness. Difference is, John would actually die. He wanted Sherlock to be sorry, to howl in pain but he didn't want Sherlock to go through what he was going through in this moment. He didn't want Hitler to go through what he was going through.

John hadn't realized it, but he was currently choking Sherlock to death. He was on top of him in a lavish restaurant while waiters and his soon to be fiancee pryed his hands of the man's skinny neck. He wanted him to die. Was that so bad? He wanted to him to either live or die like an ordinary person.

John hadn't realised it, but he was currently pulling Sherlock closer by his collar to get a better grip and pummel him to death surrounded by different waiters stopping him in a different restaurant. Christ, he had to stop.

John hadn't realised it, but he was currently attempting to head the already bleeding Sherlock for a second him while more waiters in a terribly unhygienic excuse for a cafe tried to stop him. His nose was broken. John mind flashed to all the stitches he had stitched onto the man, all the scars he had healed, all the ailments he had fixed, all the colds he had made him soup for, all the burns he had treated. Good. John didn't have to treat him anymore.

But God, he wanted to. Beacuse the thing is, like desire, grief is invisible. Pain is invisible. It wasn't crying out loud, it wasn't hugging everyone you know. It was something else entirely. It was faking a smile until everyone left the room and even then, even then, not allowing yourself to cry. It was slowly declining meals and losing weight but losing it so slowly that no one noticed. It was avoiding sleep and getting so used to being drunk all the time that you felt sober. It sucked.

Some people smile with their entire face, you know? Not just their lips but their eyes. You know someone old lived a happy life when they're wrinkles around their eyes. John eyes didn't wrinkle, not anymore beacuse no matter how hard he tried, his eyes, if one cared to stare in them deep enough, long enough would notice he was broken. But no one noticed except John himself. When he looked into Sherlock's eyes, he saw his own reflection staring back at him and be realised his pain was showing, his desire for Sherlock was showing, he was no longer invisible. And it scared him. It scared the hell out of him. Vulnerability was something he'd buried. Sentiment was something he had shed. His walls were up so strong he realised, he hadn't even let himself in. And when Sherlock broke his walls down, John didn't walk inside with him, he didn't jump off the building with him, he merely watched and cried out his name as he jumped off the very walls John has built to keep him out to his death.

Sherlock hadn't just killed himself, he'd killed John.

He went to hail a cab and called Mary. She smiled at him. John didn't glance at Sherlock as he stepped into the cab. He didn't think about him as Mary comforted him. He didn't dream about him. He didn't think about him. He didn't think about anything.

He looked over at Mary. He'd propose to her tomorrow.

Why?