Title: Insanity

Summary: When John dies during a case, Sherlock begins to find his mind lose itself. Twoshot Warning: insane!Sherlock, angst

John was dead.

The words continously rang through Sherlock's ears- plaguing his minds with that same sentence repeatedly as he sat on the ground with a blanket drawled over him. He hated his mind sometimes. On occasions, his mind saved his, John's, and countless of other victims' lives and he always felt a smug plastered on his face at the end of the day- admiring the confused look on especially Anderson's face. It brought him such delight to be able to use his mind to the full extent- broadening his knowledge with each case that was handed to him by Lestrade and sometimes, Mycroft. Though Mycroft's cases were usually bland and held no appeal to him. While he has been proven wrong on several occasions about that, generally, they were dull.

Dull. Sherlock hated dullness. He hated dull events, dull cases, dull days, and most importantly, dull people. Though of course, if he thought carefully about it- John Watson was dull. Nothing was appealing about that bloke. He had simple and soft features and was merely an army doctor- not interesting in his opinion. He was very brave and loyal to the detective, which spilled the word dull everywhere. He liked to date women he supposed, though he has been contemplating it in his own head for a while with some odd behaviours exhibited by the doctor. He could use a weapon well enough to shoot the cabby, before, based on John's assumption, Sherlock would take the pill.

John is dull. Or was. Now, he's simply dead.

John was dead.

Damn his intolerable mind. That sentence couldn't stop popping in his head. Sherlock would rather hear Moriarty's laugh- which was intolerable as it is- over that damn sentence. Of course, he had a long day. If he let his body rest- he would surely be fine in the morning. He would wake up with a long yawn and yell for John to- oh yes. John was dead.

When would he be able to swallow that in?

Sherlock's eyes narrow upwards, noticing the dark casted shadow that loomed over him. It was Mycroft, holding his umbrella over the two brothers with oddly enough concerned eyes. Sherlock brought his knees closer to his chest, before deciding to ask carefully, "Why are you here?" Mycroft never was far, but nor was he ever near. Usually, he kept to himself and inspected the younger brother through cameras and government agents. He barely took the effort to see him, unless it had something to do something specifically about the government and its rubbish.

Mycroft bit his lower lip, "I have heard the news. That John Watson was-"

"Dead." Sherlock stated bluntly. "He is dead. I am aware of that." he was sick of that sentence. He saw what happened. He saw John die. He didn't need to remind himself for the second time. If only that sentence wouldn't keep ringing in his ears.

"I'm not one for caring brother, but if you need any sort of..comfort, I'm willing to offer it." Mycroft said with caution in his voice, placing his hand on the Sherlock's shoulder gently. Though to him, it only felt more like extra weight on his worn out body.

"Thank you." Sherlock hissed, scrunching the "shock" blanket and tossing it toward Mycroft with his best effort. "But I would like to go home. I need to rest."

"I can provide a vehicle for you if-"

He interrupted, "I can walk. Good bye then."

Sherlock stood up and began to walk toward Baker Street, which wasn't too far from the crime scene gladly. He might have been tired, but he didn't want to have to talk to Lestrade, Mycroft, or anyone. They would ask him if he was okay, if he would be fine. Of course he would be. With another interesting case, he'll hop right back into the game of Moriarty and with the science of deduction, end the villanous man. He would need a new assistant, though he hardly would even dare invite Anderson. Lestrade wasn't quite suited for he had other businesses to handle and he didn't want to interrupt the officer. Sally Donovan was out of the question with her interest in Anderson. Perhaps Molly would agree, though she belonged to the hospital, not in his flat, helping him solve cases. His partner in crime, his flatmate, and his best friend could only fill that spot, couldn't he? But he wasn't there.

John was dead.

And he wouldn't come back.

It feels empty.

Sherlock fluttered his eyes opened, stretching his arms across his mattress- the duvet crumbled on the side of the bed. He felt a small smile, as he could hear the kettle whistle cheerfully in the kitchen. Tea was being made he assumed. Him and John were never much of a coffee fan- only resorting to it if they had no tea packets and the two- more like John really- didn't feel like going.

"John!" Sherlock called out, rubbing the back of his neck. He was hardly changed- preferring the feeling of the white duvet over his exposed body. He was sure John wouldn't mind to be honest. He stepped inside the living room and looked around for a few moments, narrowing his eyes. Where was the doctor? He was always awake before him- with exception of Sherlock busying himself with cases until morning. And he was so sure to have heard the kettle whistle.

"John, are you here?" he was not given a reply. Sherlock walked toward the kitchen and there were no signs of the kettle that should have been on the stove. The dishes were clean and already placed inside the dishwasher contently. Like they were yesterday before-

"Ah, yes. I must have forgotten." Sherlock let out a soft sigh and sat on the tiles below his feet. How could he have forgotten so major? John was no longer his roommate. He was no longer his partner or best friend. He was dead. And he wouldn't come back. That was his deduction- an obvious deduction but a deduction. He observed that a bullet went through John's heart. his knees collapsed underneath him, he said his final goodbyes, and his eyes were vacant as they stared up at the ceiling. Therefore, John was dead. He didn't need the assistance of a doctor or the labour of thinking about it for hours to conclude his "hypothesis."

John was dead.

John was dead.

John was dead.

John was dead.

What point was there to keep saying it, to keep repeating it, if he knew that John was dead. Thing was, Sherlock didn't want to believe in it. John being dead, sounded ridiculous. The infamous assistant and blogger that wrote about the adventures he shared with his detective companion. They were a perfect match- beyond any relationship. You couldn't define them as anything more than soul mates. At least, that was what everyone else told him. Despite his denials and attempts to ignore them, he swallowed in those words. He truly did want to stay with John Watson, the greatest doctor, blogger, assistant, and mate that he found rather boring, but perhaps in sense- made it more interesting. Which brings up the question that he didn't get to ask himself yesterday. Why did he like to be around him so much? It was an unsolvable case. The perfect case that even Moriarty couldn't provide. But, it seemed like everyone had it figured out, except him. And now, he couldn't even figure it out himself- even if he were to spend a thousand years searching through their history.

Wow, he really did miss John more than he thought. They always said that you never would miss someone until they were gone. And how true was that. Sherlock always believed that they would be together until death, solving cases and living in 221B Baker Street. Of course, he would have to deal with the notion that everyone believed they were a couple, but he was willing if it meant being by John's side. He would have him all to himself. They would get to watch awful telly together after an afternoon of chasing the criminal down. He always thought that if John were ever to be gone, it would be because he loved someone else and would decide to marry them. And he would swallow his loneliness and be happy for the bloke- either that or go on a rampage and do whatever it took to get John back. But, he didn't expect for John, his John, to be gone this way. Not by death.

I feel so empty. In my chest.

He pressed his other hand against his heart and took a deep breath. He could hear his heart, it was certainly beating against his chest. But, he could only feel emptyness. It was an unusual feeling. He wasn't certainly ill in any form, nor was his heart a nonexistent form. It was as real as anything else he saw. But, as he kept his hand against his heart, listening as the sentence repeatedly rang through his head and feeling empty in his chest.

Ring Ring

He blinked and stood up- walking toward his phone and checking the caller idea. It was Lestrade, the silver fox and a certainly courageous and trustworthy fellow. But, he had no interest to talk with him. He didn't want to. What was the point to talk to anyone? John was dead. He wouldn't be freed from that sentence, until he has figured out the case. Why did he like to be around him? And the other one which was: why did he feel so empty? It was another important question that was part of the "impossible" case.

And with a click, the phone was off.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Molly knocked against the wooden door, staring concernly at it. She haven't seen the detective for nearly three weeks and ever since they declared their friendship, he would visit every week and actually talk to her, instead of abusing her previous crush on him. Mrs. Hudson wasn't home either so she couldn't ask whenever he was home or not. So she resorted to waiting at the front door, until he would come out himself. "I-I heard about John and I am so sorry dear. Please open up. I just want to talk."

There was no reply from the other side. She frowned slightly and began to walk down the stairs, sighing. Perhaps he needed to regather himself. After all, Dr. John Watson meant everything to the detective and vise versa. There were no doubts. They risked their lives for the other and even after all their domestics as she recalled Mrs. Hudson said once, they always managed to stay together. That was true love right there. She was jealous of it.

But, if she thought hard enough about it, maybe true love wasn't the answer.

Look where it led John.

One was a crumbling genius, the other is dead.

"Sherlock haven't been answering my calls for a while and everyone else who knows him say that he wouldn't answer them either." Lestrade murmured underneath his breath, tapping his finger against his office desk. Sally was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. "I wonder if that git is alright. I didn't even get to talk to him. He looked so sad."

"More like empty. Or broken." Sally corrected, not taking her eyes off the ground. "I wish I never called him a freak or a psychopath. I mean he is one, but..he has feelings. Some at least. When John came into his life."

"I miss John." Lestrade admitted. "He was brave and ever since he came around, Sherlock acted differently. They grew on to each other. He was the closest that Sherlock could actually love."

"Perhaps.." Sally thought for a moment hesistantly. "..perhaps we should go see Sherlock and see if he's okay."

Lestrade chuckled, not sure if he was either amused or nervous, "That's quite surprising to hear from you."

"I'm worried." Sally murmured. They both grew silent, absorbing in those words. Worried for Sherlock? Maybe he had more of an impact than either could imagine. And thinking on how strong of an impact John had on him could drive the detective over the limit. After all, he was avoiding their calls, never stopped by to solve any cases, nor did anyone hear from him. It was actually frightening. Dreadfully frightening.

"Let's go."

"John, can I ask you a question?" Sherlock laid against the couch, the back of his head planted in the dozen of pillows the doctor provided for him. He hated to admit it, but he felt rather ill and had no energy to solve any cases. His voice sounded hoarse and dry. John smiled, walking toward the ill detective and sat at the edge of the couch.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Why are you still with me? I'm simply a psychopath, a freak as Donovan say. I'm probably an alien in your eyes." his eyelids began to flutter shut, sleep overcoming his senses. "Tell me. I need to know."

John thought for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows at the thought of it. Why did he stay by the detective's side? Sherlock was correct. He was a "freak" and a psychopath- or a highly functioning sociopath as Sherlock would say. But, he enjoyed the danger of being by his side and getting to solve crimes together, even if Sherlock did all the work. He enjoyed the rush and maybe he thought one day, he could contribute to the detective's work and become something more than a mere assistant and medical adviser. If it meant looking at a jar of eyeballs whenever he went to open the fridge or spend a week simply listening to him babble about how bored he was, so be it. At least he knew that life was exciting and even comforting with Sherlock. He was his home as strange (and gay) it might sound.

"Because, you create this home for me that's exciting and comforting. I feel like life is finally worth something being by your side. And you're a good person Sherlock. You always save people and being able to help you is worth a thousand years." John finally concluded, petting Sherlock's head whose eyes were nearly shut. His fever was going away luckily which he could tell from his slow breathing and temperature that seemed to have lowered. "Now rest, alright?"

As John was about to get up, he felt a tug at his jumper sleeve. "John..?"

John smiled slightly and looked back at the detective, "What is it?"

"Can you do me a favour then?"

"I'm not getting your phone from your pockets." John grinned, earning a chuckle from the two flatmates.

Sherlock shook his head, still smiling slightly, "It's not that. I just..don't leave me. Can you promise me that?"

"I promise Sherlock."

"You lied to me John.." Sherlock murmured softly, his head buried in his mattress. He wasn't sure how long he have been lying on the bed, but he had no effort to get up. It seemed to have been more than simply a mere few days, from the fact that his stomach felt like a thin beggar's and that he could feel nothing from the nicotine patches anymore. But, he wouldn't eat until he could figure it out. The impossible case handed to him. The two questions that were at stake, destroying his once stable and brilliant "mind palace" as he liked to call it. No information he had there could solve it. Then what was the answer?

I always liked to be around John. But now that he is dead, I feel empty.

Why?

Why did I like to be around John. Why do I feel so empty in my chest?

John was dead. John was dead. John was dead.

And I feel empty. And I miss being around him. I actually miss being around him. Why? Why?

Why? Why? Why? Why?

Nothing else matters. I have to figure out this case.

Breathe Sherlock. Why is it so hard breathing now? Breathing is so dull. It's so simple. Why can't I breathe?

You met him after being introduced by Stamford and you quickly became flatmates. You solve your first case together and he becomes your assistant. You learn to live with each others' habits. He's always there when you're on a case. He risked his own life by jumping on Moriarty so he could save you and stop him (which proved pointless but nonetheless).

The second time he truly risked his own life, he died because of it. And it's my fault.

My fault.

It's all my fault.

I'm the one to blame for his death.

"It's all my fault. That's why he died." Sherlock's eyes cracked open, feeling hot tears slip down his pale, hollow cheeks and drip onto the mattress. He was the reason for the death of John Watson. Was this the reason why he felt empty? Perhaps in a way. But this realization only made more tears sting and his chest more empty. More empty and hollow and..

Hurt.

My chest hurts.

It hurts more than anything else in the world.

And that's my own self to blame. I caused his death.

John was dead.

All because of me.

Because he was trying to save me and in the process, got himself killed taking a bullet in the chest.

"Answer the door please." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, instantly recognizing the stubborn voice and the knocking at his door. He could hear a frenzy of voices outside his door, all sounding like officers Lestrade must have brought along. He groaned and pulled himself off the mattress, slumping toward the front door. They better leave as soon as possible. He didn't want to be fretted over simply because he lost his friend. He will live. As soon as he figured out that bloody case.

He turned the door knob and instantly felt a pair of arms pull him toward the couch and forcing him to sit down. It was Lestrade and Donovan, no surprise there. He groaned and leaned his back against the couch, trying to look as comfortable as he could. Despite the fact that he felt such emotional pain moments before they arrived. The rest of the officers circled around the three, whispering quietly and staring at them.

"What has taken you so long?" Lestrade instantly asked, not bothering to greet the detective Sherlock noticed.

"Have you eaten?! You look so pale and thin. Well, more than usual." Sally asked herself, inspecting the detective with oddly enough concerned eyes. The same pair of eyes Mycroft had back at the crime scene Sherlock noticed. He looked back at Lestrade and noticed that his eyes were similar, though there was a mix of anger in it.

Sherlock shrugged casually, "I didn't feel like answering or eating so I didn't. Now will you get your team out of here. I am working on a very important case. It's a matter of life or death." he wasn't lying when he said that. At least having to do with the case. It was important and he could call it a life or death situation.

"What sort of case?"

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, sticking his nose up. "Does it matter? It's none of the police's concern. I can handle it myself."

"Is it about John?"

"..."

"Sherlock?"

"Y-Yes?" Sherlock managed to muster out, feeling his body tense and all his attempts at looking relaxed failed him. If he was a highly functioning sociopath, he certainly wasn't doing a good job at the moment.

Lestrade placed his hand on top of Sherlock's slowly, "Is it about John? Tell me if it is. It's okay. I'm your friend."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip, feeling the same tears pour down his cheeks like earlier. The same pain and emptyness in his chest. He couldn't take this. All these emotions built up in him wanted to explode badly. He wanted to hug on to the two and cling onto them springing with tears and confessions that sounded more like a stuttering twat. He wanted to see John again and point toward him and say that he was his only friend and no one else was.

But all that could come out was, "I have no friends. Now please leave."

"I'm not leaving Sherlock." Lestrade insisted, his voice sounding more concerned than anger or demanding. Seeing the detective break like that, even just a crack made his heart pain so much. He took a glance at Sally and they shared a silent, nod.

"This is my house. I'll call the-"

"You can't call the police Sherlock."

"I can call my brother. He'll ensure that you won't step near here again unless I allow you to."

"You can't be that-"

"Leave now or I will call my brother. He is the British government and will not stand the idea of harrassing me, his younger brother." Sherlock wasn't even sure if he would stop the police from coming in his home. After all, from the night at the crime scene, he seemed as concerned as the two other. He could be just as annoying as them.

Lestrade took a deep breath and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Fine. We'll leave." he pointed toward the front door, "Team, you can all go."

"You'll sure you'll be okay by yourself?"

Sherlock nodded, sniffling and rubbing the corner of his eyes, "I'll be fine. Now go."

"Let's go Sally." Lestrade and Sally slowly picked themselves off the couch and walked out the front door, not daring to look toward Sherlock's direction. It was too heartbreaking and it was clear that Sherlock didn't want them there. If he thought that he needed to get over the doctor by himself, so be it. It was his case, not the police's.

Sherlock sighed, burying his face in his knees, as soon as the footsteps ceased. He couldn't bear for the light to even see he was crying.

I hate everything.