Disclaimer - fanfiction, no monies earned. Nothing is mine save this story.
Warning - suicide triggers for this story.
If you ever feel suicidal, reach out. Call someone - a friend, a family member, an online group, a helpline. Life sucks really bad sometimes and there is no shame in saying "Fuck I need help!" Suicide is the only thing you can't get a redo on.
John breathed out calmly as his stomach cramped and tried to eject its contents. But John's will was as strong as ever and they stayed down.
Eventually the cramps petered away and cold started to creep its icy way up his extremities. John lay back on the couch and stared at the sun as it tickled at the curtains and let his eyes drift around the flat that had been so quiet for so long now. Too long.
He started shivering and raised a shaky numb arm to drag the afghan down off the back of the couch. But it proved too hard and he left it hanging half on and half off his now numb body.
His eyes drifted aimlessly until they caught on the skull on the mantle and John smiled softly. How Sherlock had loved that thing, regardless of the myrid of times he denied it, John knew. And the cow skull with its headphones that John knew hid Sherlock's secret stash of cigarettes. He had slipped a pack in there about a week after Sherlock had… no, he wasn't thinking of that now, not now.
It must be later than he thought, the room was getting darker, even though the sun still streamed brightly in through the windows.
His breath seemed to catch in his throat and he gasped a little. Not long now, he guessed.
He looked at the empty chairs that faced each other and remembered when two men would sit there, quietly sipping tea and reading the paper and simply being quiet. But the memory was not strong enough to erase the emptiness of the steel and leather and John's breath caught again, this time as the tears rose again.
Blood and white skin and stillness. And John coughed out a sob. The numbness crept up his chest and John still felt his heart crack. A tear traced its way across his face, yet John didn't feel it. He had spilled so many tears since Sherlock left that he no longer recognised the feeling as anything other than normal.
The room was nearly all dark now, except for the sun shining brightly through the twin windows, lighting up like a beacon.
John blinked slowly. It must be time. A shadow appeared in the bright light, where Sherlock had always stood. A tall, long shadow, with familiar curls and sharp lines. John smiled and coughed a another sob. He had done it!
He smiled up at the figure in the light and whispered Sherlock's name as the numbness finally settled into his chest and the weight of his eyelids finally forced his eyes to shut.
His breath caught and the room was silent for a heartbeat.
But he could no longer hear when the anguished scream of his name tore the weighted silence.