It was a usual Saturday morning. John got up only to be greeted by Sherlock busying around. John had been feeling rather down lately. Since he broke up with his most recent girlfriend, and Sherlock being more arrogant than ever his mood has been slowly descending. He has felt depression before, but his time it feels different, it feels like he shouldn't be sad. Before he could say he has been traumatized by the war, but now he has Sherlock, he's dating, he's got a successful blog, and business is picking up.
"Good morning John."
"Morning Sherlock."
"Sleep well?"
That's another thing, he hasn't been sleeping well, in fact he only got 2 hours of sleep last night.
"Yeah, thanks."
John poured himself some cereal and made tea. As soon as he sat down though his appetite was gone. He scooted back his chair and moved to the couch.
"What are you up to Sherlock?"
"a case."
Sherlock has been ignoring him lately. It seems like he is just an annoyance to the detective now. John stopped talking and just sat in silence.
Do you think Sherlock would care if I died? John thought to himself. Surely he could manage on his own. He's never really cared for me anyway… He shook the thoughts from his head. The blonde got up and went to his room to get dressed, even though he didn't feel like it. When he arrived at his room, he lied down on the bed. Can I just lay hear forever? John tucked himself into a tight ball and fell back asleep. When he awoke it was 1:30 pm. He should had been up and doing things by now. I wonder if Sherlock has checked on me? John finally got up, dressed, and walked out of his room.
"Sherlock?" He shouted. No response. He has just run off again. John pulled up a chair by the window and looked out.
Why the hell are you so sad? You have no reason to be. Just suck it up John. You could start seeing your therapist again… no, she was a bitch. You could talk to Sherlock… he wouldn't
"Oh, John you're up."
John was little startled by Sherlock's arrival. "Yeah, I'm up."
"Are you alright John? You look quite dramatic looking out the window like that."
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock I'm fine."
You had your chance, right there, you could have talked about it, the moment is gone now. Good job John, you managed to fuck up another situation.
John felt like he was falling apart, he could feel his eyes starting to well up.
"I'm going for a walk." Announced John.
"Mind if I go with you?"
"Um, I'd like to be alone if you don't mind." It came across meaner than expected.
Sherlock nodded.
John, another opportunity, why didn't you take it? Worthless.
He felt like he was going to lose it now, he left before Sherlock could see him cry.
It was quiet and peaceful, nice for thinking about things. He walked until he reached the park, there he found a nice bench to sit on. He took deep breathes and tried to relax.
Why do you have to be so useless? Why can't you be good at something? Why can't you be brilliant like Sherlock? You amount to nothing John, you're worthless.
John looked up to the sky in an attempt to keep the tears from falling.
Man up John, don't cry in public.
He blinked and a tear rolled down his face. He just sat there and listened to the birds, trying not to think.
You know, maybe things would be better if I was dead. Who would care? Mre. Hudson maybe. Sherlock just wouldn't have someone to clean up after him. Harry? She might mourn for a short while, but she'd move on.
Another warm tear streamed down his cheek.
Get yourself together.
He got up and started to walk back to the flat.
"Welcome back John, enjoy your walk?"
He ignored Sherlock and just went upstairs to his room, and upon reaching his bed, curling up into a ball.
Just do it you coward. The gun is right next to you. All it takes is a pull of the trigger, and it's all over. All of it. You can't do it though, you're a coward. Worst excuse for a soldier I have ever seen.
John moaned and pulled the covers over his head, tears making the sheets beneath him damp.
Please, Sherlock walk in right now. I need you.
John sat up and waited for Sherlock to come, but he didn't
John, you're being pathetic, just do it. Kill yourself, harm yourself, something. You amount to nothing, just die.
He sat up, his face red from crying. He got up and walked to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, the chill of the water distracted him from thinking. He grabbed a towel and dried his face. He looked into the mirror.
Pathetic, worthless, look at you, you're disgusting, it's no wonder no one would care if you were gone.
John punched the mirror, his hand becoming bloody fast. The blood dripped into the sink as John stood there crying, not from the pain in his hand, but from the pain he felt inside. He sat against the wall of the bathroom and tilted his head back. He covered his face with his hands, ignoring the blood and just cried. He picked up one of the broken glass shards from the mirror and looked at it.
I could kill myself with this. A few slits to the wrist and it's done.
He moved the shard to his wrist and cut. Tears are pouring down his face like a waterfall. The cut isn't deep, but it bleeds.
Damn it John, you can't even kill yourself right.
He watched as the blood ran down his arm, the lure of suicide becoming more and more desirable. He sat with his hands covering his face and fell asleep.
He is awoken by a wet dripping on his face. He looks down and remembers what he has done to himself. The bleeding hasn't stopped, but it's calmed down. Too bad. The man grudgingly hot up and checked the time. 12:37 am. Three new text messages.
Are you alright? -SH
Coming down for dinner? -SH
Good night John. –SH
He threw the phone across the room and buried himself in the covers of his bed, staining them red.
Should I write a letter? Sherlock might wonder why I did this. No, he's clever enough to figure it out himself. He will find my body. He'll finally get worried and bust down the door, only to find me long gone. He'll run to me and check my pulse, but there will be no pulse, I'll be dead.
The thought mad John hurt, like the hurt you get when you feel so sad your chest hurts actually begins to hurt. He ran his hands through his hair, trying not to cry, but failing. He sat in his bed with his clothes, sheets, and hair now being red.
"Sherlock, I need you" He whispered to himself. His voice scratchy from crying.
"of all the times you invaded my privacy, please now would be a good time. Please Sherlock, save me, please." John sobbed. He can't control it now, the tears are coming out, his lungs hurt, he is crying so hard. "Sherlock!" he yelled. "Sherlock! Please! Save me!" he trailed off as he is drowned out by his own crying. "Save me…" he said, this time quieter, followed by sobs and retching. Sherlock never arrived.
I told you worthless fucker. He doesn't care. He never has. He just needs help paying the rent. Just do it coward. I dare you.
Infuriated, John stomps over to the bathroom, picks up a sharp of glass he finds worthy to end his life, and cuts a deep meaningful slash in each wrist. He is filled with such pleaure and sorrow, he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. He slipped down against the bloody wall and fades off into blackness… "Goodbye Sherlock Holmes."
John woke up dazed and confused. He saw Sherlock clearly upset, I wonder why? Then he feels Sherlock's hands touch his shoulders and rock him back and forth. Am I on a boat? He laughs at the silly thought.
"Sherlock, I'm cold." John mumbles.
Sherlock mouths some words, but John doesn't hear any of it. He looked down at the pool of blood beneath him and remembers what happened. Immediately he is angry. WHY AM I NOT DEAD?! I SHOULD BE DEAD!
He pushed Sherlock off of him and attempted to stand, only to fall down again. Sherlock caught him and sat him back down against the wall. He is talking, but John doesn't understand any of it. His vision is going blurry, then nothing. Blackout.
He woke up to the scent of coffee and medication. He tried to rub his eyes, but his hands were restrained. What is going on? He looks to see an IV in his arm along with many stiches and bandages.
"Sherlock!" John yelled out.
"John!" Sherlock came running into the room, stopping a few feet away from John then slowly approaching him.
"What the hell is going on?"
Sherlock doesn't respond. He just stares at him with wet begging eyes. He walked slowly to John's bedside, taking his hand gently as if at any moment John would shatter. "I'm sorry." Sherlock looked down and bit his lip. It's coming back now. John puts his down against his pillow. Shit. "John I – I heard you, I heard you yelling for me. I didn't come because I thought you were just cursing me. John." Sherlock's speech is like John has never heard before. There is every emotion behind his voice. It's so not Sherlock. John just continues to stare, taking in the man' face, imaging what it must have looked like when he found John nearly drained of life. His eyes are puffy and red; his cheeks are more sunken than usual. His hair is oily and he has begun to grow stubble. "Sherlock…" John said with a relieved sigh and a smile. Sherlock smiles back whilst still crying. He leaned down and hugged John. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and began to cry to.
Sherlock walked over to the chair by John's bed, and then he held John's hand again. They locked eyes and each other's expressions said 1,000 things.
"Why?" asked Sherlock.
John looked down to avoid Sherlock's gaze. "No one cared…"
Sherlock looked at John with pain and disappointment "I cared John."
"Sherlock-"
"I've always cared. No matter what you do or what you say, I care. I cared so much for you, you literally meant the world to me. You are my best friend, my first friend, the only person I have ever felt love for. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Everyone else was convinced I was a freak, everyone else ran away, but not you John Watson. You stayed. After the first few days I thought you would be gone, but you stayed. I care so much to you John, I didn't tell you because I didn't want to scare you…" Sherlock looked down and John could see a tear fall onto the hospital blanket. John had to admit, he was misty eyed as well. He clenched his jaw, "You didn't show it very well…"
Sherlock chuckled. "I suppose not."
"Sherlock, I cared for you to. You know what my last words were going to be? Goodbye Sherlock Holmes. You would have been the last words to come out of my mouth; and if I had died I wouldn't regret dying with the taste of your name in my mouth. Because Sherlock, you are my best friend. You too are the only one who has stayed. And Sherlock," John paused, "I love you too."
Sherlock ran his fingers through the dry blood in John's hair. "John…" that's all he could manage to say.
He looked into Sherlock's eyes and imagined them like a galaxy. He looked at his hair and imagined running his fingers through, just like Sherlock was doing to him. He looked at his big soft hands, and wanted to hold them. He is mine.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes John."
"When I say I love you," he cleared his throat "I really mean it. You are just wonderful in every way, and I just – I don't know – I just – I just love you."
Sherlock smiled, "I love you to John."
Hearing him say it like that was the best feeling ever, he had never actually loved someone like this.
"When can I go home?" asked John.
"Well, they want to keep you for a week of observation, so you don't, you know…"
"Yeah, I know."
"What the hell were you thinking?" Sherlock sounded hurt and angry.
"I was thinking that I'd been mopping around the flat for months and not once did you ask if I was ok; except for that one time."
"So?"
"So, I thought you didn't care. I thought I was just a nescience to you."
"Oh! I see he's awake!" said the doctor.
The nurse escorted Sherlock out, John and Sherlock kept their eyes locked until they couldn't see each other anymore.
Days past and it was the same. Checkups every 2 hours, a therapist for 2 more hours, restraints on' restraints off, and the thing that made it all enjoyable, Sherlock's visits. He actually never left the hospital; they had set up a bed for Sherlock next to John. Since he hadn't been home in a week you could imagine what he looked like, but John still thought he looked lovely.
"Welcome home!" Sherlock said as he led John in the door. He smiled at Sherlock, "Thank you."
John threw his coat on the table by the door and sat down on the couch. I may have never seen this place again.
"Tea?" offered Sherlock.
"Yes, please…... have you told anybody about this?"
"No, I didn't think you wanted me to."
"Thank you."
Sherlock sat next to John and handed him his tea. When John placed his cup down he could see Sherlock staring at his scars. They sat in accepted silence until Sherlock grabbed John's arm. John scooted over so he wouldn't have to stretch. Sherlock ran his finger over the scars gingerly and with love. He examined each one to make sure the doctors did everything right. Then, Sherlock lifted John's arm to his mouth and kissed his scars.
"I love you." He whispered.
John threw himself into Sherlock's arms and there they lay. Sherlock on his back with John's face buried in his chest. "I love you too." John whispered back.