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He wasn't supposed to lose him. They promised each other that much, that they'd have each other's backs through hell and back.
It didn't really matter much to Simon what happened to him, though he'd never share that with Johnny. Letting the Scot believe that Simon would do any and everything to keep himself alive wouldn't hurt him. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
As much as he wished to open up to Johnny more than he had, there was always something stopping him. Always something holding him back, despite the countless times they shared a bed, all of the whispered I love you's. There were times where he wished he could take one of his many hidden knives and carve his heart out, just to show that he does love John MacTavish and will always love him and only him, but words always seem to fail him.
Somehow, he never needed to do that. Johnny always, always, knew. Said he could see it in Simon's eyes, the ones that previous partners had described as 'tired', and 'dead.' Ones he thought made him the unlovable creature he'd turned out to be. But Johnny. Oh, Johnny. He put the sparkle, the life, right back into his eyes. Price saw it, Gaz saw it- how Simon went from this walking corpse to this lively man who would ignite the planet if it meant making Johnny happy and keeping his love true.
Blue was the color of the mans lively eyes. Blue became Simon's favorite color the instant he locked eyes with Johnny.
Johnny was lying in a puddle of the most pronounced red Simon's ever seen. His lively blue eyes were dim, almost grey.
The tunnel went silent around him, nothing mattered other than trying to bring life back into Johnny's eyes. He never wanted to see them like that, he couldn't bear it any longer. But no matter how hard he shook him, how loud he yelled, how hard he kissed him, the color, the life never returned.
He doesn't remember anything after Price began to yell. Everything afterwards became the same blur that his life was pre-Johnny. He faintly recalls Gaz telling him that he had to be sedated, he'd gone mad immediately after the paramedics took Johnny. Rightfully so, he thinks. Taking him away, without even a proper goodbye. He wonders if Johnny knows. If he knows he wasn't able to tell him everything that he meant to tell him. His chest hurts.
It's his third? Maybe fourth round. He craves more, the burn that makes the dull throb behind his eyes and in his heart to go away, even for just a moment. Any form of reprieve is enough to make Simon drop to his knees and rejoice, thank whatever God took Johnny and put the ache there for giving him at least a little bit of a break.
"Realistically should be cuttin' you off by now," the bartender said, cleaning a glass.
A grumble left Simon as opposed to a scoff. He thinks he should be cut off too, but where would that leave him? Wandering the streets aimlessly? Like a dog without a leash? He slides a wad of probably too much cash over the counter and hauls himself out of the bar before he loses whatever shred of sanity he has left.
He had to start going to a different bar after Johnny died. Only once did he make the mistake of walking into their usual, and that resulted in the worst panic attack he's had since the tunnel. And that says a lot, considering he's had numerous since. Always waking up feeling like a venomous serpent was coiled around his throat and wouldn't let up no matter how hard he clawed at it, how hard he thrashed himself around in bed or on the floor.
Price had forced him into a psych eval, revealed the usual; PTSD. Not something Simon couldn't handle, but discharging him over it was something entirely different. Especially after waiting six months post-tunnel to come to that decision.
The argument they'd had over it was brief, Simon realizing that, legally, he could not stay. Civilian life was not something he'd imagined... alone, and he realizes now that he cannot manage it by himself. Regardless of Price and Gaz checking in on him between missions and whenever they had the time, it wasn't the same. His bed was cold, his entire flat was cold. Devoid of life. The sun could be as bright as ever shining through the windows, but it'd still feel lifeless and dark to him.
Stumbling back into his hell of a flat, he kicked his shoes off and stood in the entryway for a long moment. There was a lot that he could do, realistically. He could sleep, gather up the piles of trash he's let accumulate throughout various spots, gather is laundry, maybe. That'd be good, he needs fresh clothes. A shower could do him some good as well.
With a long sigh, he'd opted for none of those options, and instead fished through a small shoe-box that he kept hidden beneath his bed. Simon had kept it hidden underneath whatever bed he slept in since he was a recruit. The box was filled with various sharp items, razor blades, pocket knives. Some stolen, some bought and kept clean enough for multiple uses. He never truly felt bad for stealing the blades, especially if they were from discarded razors.
All he could see for weeks after the tunnel was red when he closed his eyes. Simon avoided showers entirely for a long while after, because the flow of water reminded him of it. Damn near everything reminded him of that botched mission, he just couldn't seem to escape it.
The steady flow of red down his forearms and onto the hardwood flooring grounded him in a twisted way. Made him feel closer to Johnny after all this time.
Would he be mad at him again? Simon promised he wouldn't relapse, Johnny had basically forced him to after revealing what some of the tattoo's had covered. He had no problem staying clean for him, he had no reason to relapse when he got to wake up next to a man as fine as John MacTavish damn near every morning. Simon had no reason to fall back into old destructive habits when Johnny was always there to hold him through a rough night, when Johnny was always there to help pull him out of whatever depressive hole he managed to constantly find himself in. And he never complained.
He was out of bandages, and he knew this. He cut anyways. There was nobody stopping him anymore. It wasn't like Price would come bursting through his door and reprimand him for it. There was nobody around who would give a shit about whether or not he cut. The only person who did got lost in a sea of red himself, so why couldn't Simon follow suit? Would it truly be wrong?
With a groan and much effort, he stumbled into the bathroom and rid himself of his pants. Sometime between entering the bathroom and cutting his thighs, he began to cry. This wasn't new to him, the crying spells. Just unwelcome. He wasn't one to cry unless it was with Johnny, so what gave him the right to do so now?
Episodes like this became frequent. He'd drink, cut, and cry. There were times where Simon would pass out from the exhaustion of it all sitting up somewhere, and would wake up with dried blood all over himself.
A thought invades his clouded mind, and he fishes through the medicine cabinet. Simon has tried this before, failed. All it's done was put him into a dreamless sleep, which he didn't mind. Just left him dehydrated and sluggish for days afterwards and nobody knew about it. Hesitance strikes him immediately after grabbing a pill bottle. There was no way he could go out this way, any other way would put him at peace. Johnny didn't take the cowardly way out, why should he?
Johnny went out a decorated soldier, meanwhile Simon was left rotting away. It wasn't fair. It should've been him. He should've taken that bullet from Makarov. He should've at least been there to try and stop it, but he wasn't.
Each thought that popped up in his head earned another wound. He stopped counting after number 40.
More tears fell, Simon did his best to stop them, but they ran heavier the longer he thought about Johnny. Through a wall of tears, he registered the fact that he hit a vein. Some odd sense of satisfaction washed over him at the realization, and the sudden urge to make it worse hit him like a train. He followed through on that urge.
If the alcohol wasn't going to kill him in a timely fashion, he decided this would. He'd bleed out right here in his bathtub, and nobody would have a clue until rent was late. Maybe Gaz would stop by for a cuppa, or a meaningless pity chat. For some reason, Simon didn't feel bad about who would find his corpse. He didn't care.
Another vein, he can't register the pain anymore, but he is lightheaded.
He's been trained to kill, he knows where he can cut to get the result he wants. But he deserves this, he deserves to suffer for letting Johnny die. He let it happen after promising he'd look out for him. They swore they'd do that, and he *failed.* Simon failed to protect the one thing keeping him afloat, now he was drowning. It's gotten to the point where he wants to drown just so he doesn't have to see those lifeless eyes again.
The memory of that alone is what drives him to do the finishing touch, he can feel the blood draining from his body and Simon is aware he'll die in a few minutes. He's more than okay with that, he'll see his Johnny again, and see the beautiful blue eyes he fell in love with. That's all that matters to him, that's all that's mattered.
He could feel the end creeping up on him as he sat there in a pool of his own blood, and Simon summoned the remaining strength left in his body to gaze down at it. Just like the tunnel. Good, maybe Johnny won't be angry with him in whatever afterlife there is. Maybe this is what Simon needed to do to show him that he loved him more than anything- he'd kill himself just to be with him. There was no world in which Simon Riley could exist without John MacTavish, and he proved that.