Years ago I'd found myself in this position, blade in hand. Many times actually. But the reasoning had been different back then. Anything to alleviate the boredom. An experiment on blood flow or pain tolerance, perhaps. But now, it was something else entirely. Pain. Emotional pain. A concept so foreign to me, so strange, but I felt it.
I'd seen John today at my grave, heartbroken as expected. I knew it would hard on him. What I had failed to expect, though, was the impact seeing him would have on me. Watching him as he cried, it made me feel sick. How could I have done this to my one friend, the only person who cared for me? More than anything I wanted to run to him, show him that I'm fine, still alive, but I couldn't. I couldn't risk his life. And so, I find myself left with one option. One way to make it right.
Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes and try to slow my breathing, try to relax and push my emotions aside. But I can't. Emotions were why I was doing this, after all. I open my eyes again and stare down at the blade, twisting it in my hand, studying it before I set it on my wrist, shivering slightly as the cold metal makes contact with my skin. For John... I press down and pull quickly, then watch as red beads form across the line and spill over. Shallow, superficial. The next will not be.
Again I place the blade on my wrist and pull, hearing my skin split open. The pain makes me shake, makes my head spin, but I do not stop. Just what I deserve for hurting John the way I did. Over and over I cut up my arm, each one a little deeper than the last. Nothing fatal, though.
I really don't want to die. I can feel my eyes become watery, my vision blurred, then tears drip down my cheeks as I position the blade over my arm so that it is vertical. I almost cry out, but silence myself, try to regain some control. Just a little longer, then I can let go. I hesitate on my first attempt, can't find it in myself to press down hard enough. I let another cry escape, and hold my bloody hands to my face. I am...terrified. I don't want to die.
I breathe deeply and remove my hands from my face, wiping the tears from my eyes. Just one more cut, then it'll be over. You'll be gone just as John believes. There will be no more deception. Thrusting the blade into my arm, I tear into my skin, one pull going from wrist to elbow. Nothing left to do but wait, now. I let the blade fall from my hand.
A wave of comfort, of warmth rolls over me, surrounding my weakening body. Maybe it's just the blood loss. I am numb. My vision is growing more blurry and I am getting dizzy. My head falls back. I can almost see John now, him telling me what a silly thing this was. "Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?" Maybe he's right. I almost laugh. Oh John...How I'd missed him, how I still do. At least I won't have to any more.
Fading in and out of consciousness, I know I am near the end. Should I be sad? No, I'm too far gone for that. I let my eyes close and feel my heart slowing, my breathing heavy. I allow the darkness to surround me, until all feeling fades away.