Chapter Text
John doesn't know exactly when it happened - the moment. That moment, when the dark swirling grief and the cold weight of loss embedded themselves deep into his weary bones. People told him that it doesn’t go away, but it gets better. Easier. Maybe it did. He gets out of bed now. He doesn't jerk awake, a scream stuck in his throat, damp with sweat, heart racing. Not that the dreams went away. They just don’t affect him the way they used to. He lies awake at night, fearful of what waits for him in his unconscious. But he goes anyway, because the real world isn’t much more than a waking nightmare.
He went back to work. He can eat, after losing two stone, food just started appearing. Mrs. Hudson, he thinks. Maybe Molly. He goes to the pub to watch football with Greg and ignores the worried glances. He drinks. That makes the sleeping easier. He ignores the voice in the back of his head. My my, John. Now, what would your sister think? After all of those nagging phone calls, you are right there with her. He doesn’t acknowledge that he knows that voice. That voice has lost the right to tell him what to do.
He goes to the gym. This started happening about two months after. He was out of whiskey, he was a little too awake, the flat was a little too quiet, and he was a little too alone. Without really thinking about it, he pulled on his coat, slipped on his shoes, and was out the door, set on purchasing another handle of whatever he could find. His jeans were slipping low on his waist as he walked down the dark path. He pulled them up, sighing. He was starting to look rather ill. He rounded the corner only to see that the off-license was closed. Frowning, he looked down at his watch. 1:47, shit not even close. Spinning on his heel, he started back the way he came, frustrated and slightly embarrassed. He was stalking back to the flat, watching his feet hit the pavement, when he heard a door click open and swing closed. Another off-license? Looking around, he couldn’t tell where the sound had come from. To his right, he saw a faint green glow down an alley. He doesn’t think he’s ever walked down this particular one. Curious, he goes to see what is still open. The green glow grew sharper as John stepped into the alley; the flicker of a fluorescent sign, barely illuminating the 24-Hour Fitness sign, barely illuminated the damp brick walls. It was wedged between a shuttered café and an anonymous steel door, almost like the place had sprouted up just for him, hidden until he needed it.
The entrance buzzed when he pushed it open, the smell of sweat, rubber, and old cleaning fluid hitting his nose. It was quiet inside, save for the dull thud of music vibrating through the cheap speakers overhead and the hum of a running treadmill. A bored-looking attendant barely glanced up from behind the desk, too engrossed in whatever was on his phone to question John's lack of gym kit. He glanced around. The place was filthy, he was alone other than the twenty-something attendant, and another bloke on the treadmill, sweat dripping from his white hair. Earbuds dangled from his ears and disappeared into his pocket. He hadn’t even glanced in the direction of the door as John had pushed it open.
He started towards the weight rack, then hesitated. The lights buzzed overhead. His fingers twitched at his sides, the remnants of a long-forgotten tremor. This was stupid, wasn’t it? What was he going to do here? In jeans and bloody brogues, no less. But there was a tension in his neck, a flutter in his stomach, and a buzz beneath his skin that had nowhere to go. So he continued to move.
The weights were cold and achingly familiar under his fingers. He started with the smaller weights towards the end. Just something to pick up, then put back down again. Small. Something to push, something to pull. His jumper quickly stuck to his back with sweat, but he didn’t care, nor did he even notice. He grunted through deadlifts, improvised presses, and pushed until the ache dulled everything else. He kept at it until there was no room left for memories, or dreams, or that damned voice that always knew exactly where to twist the knife. Just picking something up, then putting it back down again. Pushing and pulling.
His lungs burned. His legs shook. And when he finally dropped the dumbbells with a loud clang, it was like something inside him loosened its tight grip. Despite the burn in his lungs, the air he was breathing felt clearer. The dim lights seemed brighter. He could stand up a little straighter. He staggered to the musty-smelling locker room, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at his reflection. Hair damp. Cheeks flushed. Chest rising and falling in something that he almost recognized.
He wobbled out of the gym, nodding towards the desk as he left. Hoping he didn't ask for any sort of payment method, and stepped back out into the night. The sharp air cooled his skin as he looked around, gathering his bearings. He started down the alley, towards 221b. Maybe this would help. Maybe he’d come back tomorrow.
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
Go back tomorrow, he did. He brought his kit this time. And set up an account at the desk with the sleepy, recently post-pubescent clerk; he didn’t need to stay as long this time. It was still dark out when he emerged. And for the first time in a little under two months, he woke up in the morning, remembering how he got in bed, and with an ache somewhere other than his head. Maybe if he continued to go, it would also ease the ache in his heart.
This was his routine for months. He would wake up and stare at the crack in his wall. Directly above the bullets. The small knobs on his desk. Gun in the drawer. Can you feel it? The weight in your hand? The spider web where the wall meets the ceiling. Do not disturb it! I am observing the change in pattern after administering… His alarm would then alert him that it was time to sit up and pull on clothes, brush his teeth, comb his hair, eat, if he remembered, and then start his walk to work. He’d see patients, prescribe antibiotics, examine injuries, and stick his hands in some uncomfortable places. He’d go to the café across the street for lunch. He’d get a black coffee and a plain croissant. Somehow, both would feel dry in his mouth. He’d see more patients, and then before he knew it, his work was over. And he is supposed to go home. So instead, he begins his walk to the pub.
The bartender would see him come in, and fill a pint of beer, setting it on the counter, before turning and filling a glass with two knuckles of whiskey. John would drink this first, finishing it and handing the glass to the bartender before Greg inevitably shows up. John will drink his pint slowly, nodding and sitting quietly, listening to Greg jabber on about the awful precinct coffee, his annoying ex-wife, his kid, who just lost another tooth, if you can believe it, I swear he has an endless amount of ‘em, before he asks John, “So, how are things?” John would look up, and smile.
“Same old.” He would say. Greg would stretch a smile across his face and clap him on the back.
“Well, that's good, isn't it?” John would only nod. They both already know that it is not. But they are blokes. British ones, no less. They won’t discuss this further. And for that, John is grateful. He has cried more in the last few months than he has in his entire life. He doesn’t know if he can handle it anymore.
They’d order another round, discuss football, and before long, Greg would finish his pint, squeeze John’s shoulder, announce that he’d better head out, wish John a good night, tell him to take care of himself, and that he would see him soon. John would then turn back to the bar, relishing the pain in his muscles where Greg had squeezed. He would put down another glass of whiskey before sliding out of his chair and finally head for home.
He’d stay there long enough to switch shoes and grab his gym bag before slipping back into the night. He would barely remember the walk there, but the moment he steps out of the locker room and towards the equipment, he can breathe easier. The ache in his legs, the fire in his shoulders, the tight sting across his back - these were anchors. They tethered him to now. His muscles screamed in protest, and it was good. Because the pain he could feel was better than the kind he couldn’t name. The kind you can’t talk about. He chased that ache every night, welcomed it. It kept the ghosts out. It gave him a reason to breathe.
Until one night, it couldn’t.
It was colder than usual when he stepped into the alley, hands deep in his coat pockets, gym bag slung over one shoulder. But there was no green glow. He blinked, confused, and took a few steps forward. The fluorescent sign was gone, just a patch of darker grime where it had hung. The door was shut. The lights were off. No music. No hum. No bored attendant with his nose in his phone. Just silence.
He stepped closer, uncertain, like it might reappear if he looked hard enough. Like it had all been a mirage, and he was simply seeing it from the wrong angle. But the truth settled in his gut like ice. The gym was closed. Not closed for the night. Gone.
His feet stayed planted for several minutes. Maybe someone would walk out. Maybe the lights would flicker back on. But they didn’t. The weight in his chest crept in fast. Heavier than anything he could have lifted inside, thick, suffocating, sharp. Like he couldn’t quite catch his breath, he clutched the strap of his bag, knuckles white. And he was alone again. That ache, the good kind, the kind that let him sleep, was already beginning to fade from his limbs. Already slipping from his grasp like… so many other things.
He walked back to 221b with lead in his heart. The silence of Baker Street rang too loudly in his ears as he opened the door. He climbed the stairs, the only sounds he could hear were his feet on the steps and the wind in his lungs. He crossed the threshold and dropped the gym bag just inside the door, leaning his head against the frame.
He could feel it already. The absence. It was creeping in through the cracks. The way it always did. He longed for the distraction of the pain from lifting things heavier than he should be. The ache in his arms as he reached out for the bottle of whiskey he kept in the cabinet to the left of the sink. He took a swig straight from the bottle, eyeing the block of knives on the counter, an idea tickling his brain.
He really shouldn’t. He knows that. He’s a doctor, for god's sake. But then again, that just means he knows how to do it safely in a way that would give him the ache he needs, but nothing more. He took another swig, stepping to stand in front of the block. No one would know. He could easily hide it. The only shirts with short sleeves that he owns are for the gym… and that isn’t happening anymore. He cocked his head considering. The bottle was still in his hand, warm now, clutched too tightly. He stared at the knives, each one a precise, familiar tool. He knew their weight. Knew which were sharp enough. Knew where the nerves lay, how deep to go to hurt just enough. Not enough to kill—he wasn’t trying to die. He just needed something. Something to cut through the numbness, to give shape to the ache inside him.
He set the bottle down slowly and reached out, fingers brushing the smooth handles. His pulse quickened, and he hated that it felt like anticipation.
His breath hitched. He could already feel the phantom sting on his skin, the tight pull of gauze, the relief that might come after. The real, manageable pain. Just one small cut. A clean one. Control, that’s what it was—a way to control the other stuff.
The hum of the fridge filled the silence like static in his ears. His hand hovered over the smallest knife in the block. The one used for peeling fruit, for slicing garlic. Thin. Light. Sharp. The perfect edge to cut through skin without too much mess. Without too many questions.
He picked it up.
It felt wrong and right in his palm. The familiar weight of a tool, but one used with a different purpose now. His breath came shallow, controlled. Clinical. Detached. It was easier that way. If he thought about it like a procedure. Like stitching up a wound, just in reverse.
He carried the knife to the bathroom, stepping over the clutter of laundry and unopened mail. He clicked the door shut and locked it. Not that anyone would come in, not anymore, but the illusion of privacy helped. The mirror was streaked from weeks of neglect, but he didn’t look at his reflection. He couldn’t. He did not want to see what his face looked like as he did this.
He sat on the closed toilet lid and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. His forearms were thin, less thin than they used to be; the gym had transformed his body, but he still was thinner than he had been since the army. The veins stood out beneath pale skin, popping slightly.
He held the blade to the inside of his arm, just below the crook of his elbow. Not too deep. Just enough.
A sharp inhale. He pressed. It was almost too easy. He watched the red bloom, transfixed. It was stark against the white tile and the pale skin of his inner arm. His breath shook slightly as he exhaled. And the tightness around his head and heart loosened. The fog in his brain thinned, and while the weight in his chest didn’t lift, it shifted. It became something he could carry, even just for a moment. Enough to fall asleep. He brought the knife back to his skin. The slight burn felt so good. Solid. Real.
He set the knife on the counter, watching the blood roll. It dripped off his elbow onto the tiled floor. He could hear the quiet drip in the otherwise silent flat. The ache was clean. Pure. And simple. Lingering. It was real.
He cleaned the cuts with surgical precision only a doctor could have, wrapped them in gauze, and tugged his sleeve back down. He unlocked the door, flicked off the light, and returned to the living room. The whiskey was waiting for him. He took a sip and didn’t even flinch this time. It didn’t burn as much as it should.
He lay down on the sofa, letting the alcohol and the pain blur together, dull the edges of thought. The ache in his arms grounded him. It kept the worst thoughts away, at least for tonight.
It wasn’t a solution.
But it was something.