Psychosomatic Sickness

"They say John's ill..."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Greg said so... He said that he won't leave the flat..."

"Is that all?"

"W-Well, no, he's sick, Sherlock. He's depressed and it's just... spiraling."

"It's hardly my problem."

"He's gone downhill ever since you... left."

"So, you're saying it's my fault."

"Wh- Sherlock, he... he misses you."

"Sentiment-"

"No, Sherlock, I'm serious. He's really sick."

"He can go to hospital, then."

"He won't leave the flat."

"Well, what am I supposed to do about it? I have a plane to catch tomorrow to Johannesburg. Besides, John thinks that I'm dead. I can hardly show up at his flat."

"We're all afraid that..."

"That what, Molly?"

"... He doesn't leave the flat, he barely eats and sleeps, he doesn't talk to anyone else, Greg said that he's still texting you-"

"Annoyingly so."

"... Greg said that he, well, he-he's nervous. That John might do something... something-"

"John would never commit suicide."

"It has to do with sentiment... So, do you... do you really know that?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

John stared at the ceiling of the flat, steadily counting his breaths. It was difficult to catch his breath, John realized dully, after a coughing fit. Even moreso after he had been crying, after he had been sick for the past month.

Except he wasn't really sure if he was sick. He had just felt so horrible ever since... ever since Sherlock's death. He had been tired, but he hadn't been sleeping. He hadn't had an appetite, and even though he had always told Sherlock that he needed to eat, John stopped eating three meals a deal. He hadn't had the ambition to do anything, really, and he had stopped leaving the flat unless necessary. He stepped out to Tesco's when he had to, but he didn't go walking through Trafalgar Square for leisure, either. He had had a headache for the past half month, on and off and annoying as hell, and every so often, he'd remember watching Sherlock fall to the ground and John would end up rinning to the toilet to be violently sick.

It's psychosomatic, his mind was telling him. Sherlock's voice was telling him that it was psychosomatic. But, after the first few weeks, John began to wonder if it really was psychosomatic. He felt so horrible, all the time.

John took another deep breath. It shuddered and he coughed slightly, raising his hand to cover his mouth.

He wanted to curl up and fall back asleep.

And, without anything else for him to do, John did.

That's all he seemed to do anymore, really. And it really was disgusting and pathetic, but every time he thought he might go out to Hyde Park, he decided that maybe he would do it later, and he always put it off and put it off and he never really... got around to it.

Instead, he slept and occasionally pulled up the homepage for his blog, although he never updated it. The last update had been on June 16th, right after Sherlock's death.

It was like a part of John had died when Sherlock had, and John knew that wasn't far from the truth. He needed Sherlock like he needed oxygen. It made sense that he was breathless nowadays.

When John woke up again, it was nearly one in the afternoon and he couldn't fall back asleep because it was too bright. The neighbors in the nearby flat had their television up entirely too loud and John resisted the urge to go next door and demand that they turn it down. He'd already gotten into one fist fight, not long after Sherlock's suicide. Someone had called Sherlock a lying, thieving, backstabbing sob, in precisely those words, to his face. John had completely lost it and he didn't feel bad about it afterwards, even though Greg was the arresting officer and there was a look of pity on his face.

John hauled himself out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom.

After a very hot shower that left him dizzy from heat, John wandered to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

It was only after he had brewed it and taken a gulp of the hot liquid that John felt the vertigo start. Saw, more like, as the world blurred into one big blob. He squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to set his cup back on the saucer.

He didn't see how, but the cup crashed onto the floor.

John flinched, trying to step away. Trying, because the world was still spinning and his head was pounding and dark spots were flittering across his vision.

The dark spots formed together, tunnel-vision assailing him, before John gave into the darkness and fainted straightaway.

Thanks to Storylover18 for this wonderful prompt, because I basically asked her for an angsty prompt, and she suggested this idea. This idea which hasn't really been stated yet, but, this is only the prologue. So, yes, angst alert.

Favs/Follows/Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you!