He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't stop. He ran until his legs screamed at him, begged him to slow down, to rest. He ran from bullets, from the devil himself. He ran from the impossible.

The cold air stung in his already tearful eyes, making his vision blurry. It's all in my head, it's all in my head, he chanted, trying to calm himself down. Still, the familiar voice chimed in his head, repeating the same word, the same name, over and over.

John. John. John.

An old memory flashed before his eyes. A chilly day, a day full of confusion, fear and grief. A day he would never forget.

"Goodbye John."

"No, no! No, damn you, please stay!" he screamed, scaring bypassers. He fell to his knees, sobbing violently. "Don't go," he whispered, ignoring the pain in his knees. "Don't leave me," he begged. His whole body shivered, partly because of the cold wet ground. He looked down and discovered there was blood on the pavement.

The crimson blood mixed with the water, making it fade like a sunset. His blood. He'd fallen harder than he thought. He could feel a slight aching in his knees, but nothing he couldn't handle. The pain in his chest was something else entirely.

All he wanted was to stay where he was and just wash away with the stream, melt away in the crowd, just lay there until it didn't hurt anymore.

The doctor in him told him to get the fuck up before he got a cold. Stop being so damn pathetic, he spat at himself. Stop pitying yourself, he continued. Weak. He threw the words at himself, frustrated that they were true.

He dragged himself up, flinching when he saw his blood covered knees. He'd only pierced the skin, there was no real damage. The pain in his chest was more fatal. It felt like the poorly sown stitches in his heart was ripping up, taking vital chunks with it. How would he get through this? He looked ahead and recognized the street. He knew where to go. Even though he couldn't call it home anymore.

One step at the time.

*^*^*^*

When John arrived at the apartment, he was glad Mrs. Hudson was out with a friend. If she'd seen him like that, she'd be horrified. His swollen, tear-streaked face, bloody knees and the part she would be horrified by; he didn't wear a jacket. Classic Mrs. Hudson.

He changed to something dry. He really wanted to wear one of his old jumpers, but ended up wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. He hadn't worn a jumper since...that day. It reminded him of him. He stroked the fabric of his favorite. It was a striped one, the one he remembered Sherlock - sort of - complimented.

Once his thoughts drifted towards Sherlock, he couldn't help himself. The voice he'd heard today was Sherlock's. No doubt about that. The thing that bothered him was that it had felt so real. It was clear and deep, beautiful and deadly - just like the hope that had grown in his chest.

"John." He shuddered. Too real. "John."

John decided to turn on the radio to tune out the haunting voice in his head. What a lovely tune, he thought, closing his eyes.

Now playing, Flesh and bone, by Keaton Henson.

I am alone, so don't speak
I find war, I find peace
Find no heat, no love in me

And I am low and unwell
This is love, this is hell
The sweet plague that fo-

The room was suddenly filled with an ear-shattering crackle, the sound of scattered plastic and metal. A small mark was made beside the yellow smiley. It looked kind of faded to him now. He felt like it was mocking him.

A part of him was still clinging on to the possibility that it was all just a bad dream, a horrible nightmare. John realised that day that a part of him was still full of hope. A wonderful, yet extremely poisonous hope.

Greg was right. He had to get out of the apartment.