There Are No Tears

John sits in 221B, alone. He stares at a crack in the wall, and tries not to think. He knows this feeling, of course, he's felt it before. He wonders why people think of crying and sadness when they think of depression. There are no tears. Not when he's like this. He feels all hollowed out. And the bad thoughts float unobtrusively through his brain, though he tries to call attention to them, force himself to acknowledge how not good they are. It's so easy, when everything is so calm and quiet and numb, to just let them slip in and out at their leisure. But that is dangerous. If he doesn't at least try and convince himself that they're stupid and wrong, he may just do them. But then of course, there's no one about to care. He's quit his job. Harry has the solace of the drink, and Mrs. Hudson is, despite her caring nature, made of steel. He's pretty sure she could pick herself up after any blow. It's not like she's seen that much of him, the past month or so, hiding away in the flat. She's probably expecting him to off himself anytime now. At least then she could rent out the flat. Not good. The crack, think of the crack. He tries, he really does, but he slips again and instead he thinks about getting his gun. But that would mean moving, and he hasn't the energy for that. Still, he knows it would just be a matter of time, if it wasn't for one niggling little doubt. Sherlock lied. Everything, everything he said over the phone was untrue. It was, I know it was. But why? Why, unless things were not as they seemed. He is probably delusional, desperate, and crazy, but the idea makes him feel a little less lonely, so he keeps it around anyways.

A/N …It's been a rough weekend. Depression sucks, kids. If you know these feels, don't be stubborn like me, go get some help.