It was in the night that John was worst.
Those nights when he lay in ben curled into the foetal position, shaking as the tears became a flow of sadness dripping onto the sheets or pillow on which he rested his head.
He knew nobody was around but he still wept silently, muffling the sobs with the covers or his pillow. He didn't want anybody at those times, but at the same time all he yearned was for a warm body to encircle him in their arms and whisper that it'll all be alright. That he'll beat this depression.
The voice never comes, the warmth never comes. Nothing does. The only thing he is left with is a feeling of emptiness. He's felt like this for so long he's blocked it out, he's so numb, so, so numb.
There would be a wave of… of…something. Something that would cause him to tense, to curl tighter into himself and his hands to grab onto his hair, tugging painfully at the blond locks. Sometimes it was skin, he would hold onto his neck, tensing his shoulder blades and digging his nails into the soft skin until there were marks left that left a small amount of blood welling to the surface and to drip down. He still wouldn't make a noise in that moment but it's hard. If he didn't hold back, a horrible wail would echo throughout his bedroom and he didn't want to hear it. The sound of his own mental pain.
He thought he'd beaten it, the suicidal thoughts, the self-hate, the itching of his wrists. The dreams were the worst, always leaving him in this very position.
It had stopped though, when he'd met the great Sherlock Holmes. Well, not stopped but it had gotten better. He hadn't been so alone, so sad all the time. Sherlock had saved him and he'd never been able to thank him for it.
He'd never forget it, the sight of his best friend flying through the air towards the hard, cold pavement meters below. The sight of those open eyes staring into nothing, looking so vacant as the black curls soaked in his dark, dark blood. Every time he closed his eyes he saw it. Sherlock had saved him and what had he done in return? Watched as the detective fell to his death.
Suicide. It was something he had contemplated a lot. His note wouldn't be long though, it would only be a few brief goodbyes but mostly it would be to make sure nobody blamed themselves. Then again, who would read it? Sure, Harry would be a bit upset but she'd get over it, just buy another bottle of scotch. Mrs Hudson would be saddened but it wouldn't last long. Lestrade would be unhappy at most, maybe even annoyed but it would hardly affect him unless it was seen as murder and became a case. It would hardly affect anybody. Sarah would hire another doctor to fill his position, Mrs Hudson would get new tenants, Lestrade would probably not even hear, and Mycroft wouldn't be bothered in the slightest.
No, nobody would overly miss him.
Three years of this now. Existing. Existing in a numb state where the only thing he does feel is pain. He missed his detective, the man that made him feel alive again. It's getting too hard for him to live now; he's back to the way he was after being discharged. He had no purpose and it was killing him. Sherlock had given him purpose; he'd also given him the thing he needed. A friend. Somebody who was there.
He didn't know when but somehow in all the time he spent with the crazy man, he fell in love. He hadn't believed in love before that, thinking it just a lie you told to make your partner feel close but now he knew it. It's real. Every time he'd look at Sherlock his heart would skip a beat, he'd get butterflies and his palms would sometimes even become sweaty. He became a nervous teenager again around the man. It was so frustrating but so lovely at the same time.
The night before Sherlock jumped, he'd told the detective how he felt and to his utter surprize, the man had returned his sentiments. It had been his dream. But then the call came, Mrs Hudson had been hurt. He could still remember the disbelief he had harboured as Sherlock had refused to go and see her. The words that he had spat at him; "you machine," being the phrase that echoed around his head on repeat.
It's a cold night tonight. You could hear the wind outside whistling through the cracks in the silence, making the army doctor shake as he wrote it.
He had made a decision.
He couldn't go on like this, so alone all the time. The last time he had been about to do it was the night before meeting Sherlock. It's funny how one man could alter his life so drastically and then for it to resume as it was, the second he left.
The note was simple; a short goodbye and a small paragraph to tell them to let him go, to forget him. He left it on the coffee table.He folded it neatly, only writing the word "goodbye" on the front. Hopefully Mrs Hudson wouldn't find him; she didn't need to see the mess. He knew that she would but still he wished.
He made his way back to his room barefoot. He was comfortable in his plaid pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt. In his room, in the third drawer down, he still kept that gun. It was cold when he picked it up; it felt heavy in his hands. He decided to sit on the bed for this, so he made himself comfortable. His hands were shaking as he brought the gun to his temple, he squeezed his eyes shut. It was ready, he was ready. He didn't need to be alone anymore.
He was about to pull it, to press his finger down on the trigger.
When the sound of a door hitting the wall in the living room made him freeze.
"John?" A baritone voice drifted up to his room.