Sherlock's hands were shaking.
They'd never shaken before in his life- not out of fear, or cold, or indecision. But now, they were shuddering, quivering violently in time with his gasps, as he lowered himself into the bathtub, fully clothed.
He was holding a small vegetable knife in his right hand, gripping it fiercely like it might disappear if he did not. His knuckles were white, shivering, the tendons standing stark from his hand, the big blue veins prominent because of the paleness of his skin.
The knife was sharp- John used it to chop food up on the occasional instances where he cooked dinner. Sherlock could see his translucent eye reflected in it; it was glassy from moisture.
Images of John chopping carrots entered his mind, and it did nothing to help his shaking. Although, he supposed he would want his last memories to be that of John- good, kind John who would probably miss him for a few months, then eventually move on.
That was the problem. Everyone would move on, and forget him. He was dispensable, useless, and in many cases, annoying. Surely everything would be better if he just wasn't around anymore. If there was one thing Sherlock could not tolerate, it was uselessness. And he felt completely useless. Unable to go outside, because people hated him, and unable to form relationships because he was a freak. How he had managed to get John was something Sherlock would never be able to work out, and even then, John could barely stand him either, which was why John had stormed out of the flat earlier after one of their fights. John would be better off without him.
Life was short, and John had managed forty years without Sherlock. Why would a year long acquaintance with some mad man and his hobby alter John in the great scheme of things? He still had the rest of his life to go, and Sherlock was sure he himself was no great episode in the achievements and endeavours of John Watson. He doubted John would remember him on his death bed in too great detail.
He loosened his grip on the knife, and held it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. It would take two minutes to bleed out. Mycroft's bugs in the hallway outside the bathroom would see that he hadn't emerged in over half an hour, and Mycroft would be informed.
At least now, Mycroft would have one less thing to worry about and one less thing to pay for. Sherlock hated being indebted to his brother. He hated being a nuisance. He hoped that Mycroft would donate his body to the morgue, because then at least he would die and be useful!
He stretched his left wrist out, making the skin taut. The blade pressed coldly against his thumping pulse, and he dug downwards into his own skin.
By God, that hurt! He winced, but did not relent. The cut went about an inch down his wrist before he pulled the knife away. Blood spurted outwards, trickling down his arm. It was a relentless flow. He did it again, this time a few centimetres away and parallel to the first.
The second cut hurt even more, and he forced recollections of all those people who hated him, who despised him, who wanted him gone and dead and in pain. It helped fuel him to pull the cut open so it was longer. They were still shallow cuts, but blood poured forth freely, straight out of the radial artery. It burned and shooting pain erupted along his arm. He clenched his left fist tightly, and bit his lip savagely. A small cry managed to seep out of his mouth, and he stifled it, whimpering slightly.
On hindsight, he ought to have taken his stash of cocaine that was hidden in his bedroom. Taken it all, and overdosed, so that there would be no doubt that he would actually die. But he wanted this: he wanted the pain and the burn. He didn't want it to be quick and painless. He wanted to feel the life bleed out of him.
His tiny whimpers turned into full-on moans, and he started to hyperventilate. His right hand was shaking too violently; his third and fourth cuts were torn and jagged. The agony was blinding, and Sherlock blinked back tears.
His left arm was soaked in blood. He reached forth, and turned the faucet on, to fill the tub with cold water. He did not know why he did it, but he did.
He tub slowly filled with icy water, and Sherlock began on his right wrist. He couldn't clearly see what he was doing, his vision blurred by tears and black and white spots dancing in front of his vision every time the knife sunk into his skin. His hand spasmed, and he dropped the knife. It slowly sank to the bottom of the tub, which had filled about six inches with water.
His wrists were ravaged, and blood was flowing into the water, swirling about, creating flowers and patterns. Sherlock lay back until the water swallowed his face. He blinked upwards through the water to the ceiling. The water was coloured pink. The light was too bright, so he closed his eyes, holding his breath. His heart was pumping fast, and he could hear it under the water, pumping more blood out of the wounds on his forearms.
His thoughts were starting to go fuzzy, and he could feel a new burning in his lungs, which begged for air. He did not sit up to breathe. He continued counting his pulse, but the thumping in his ears were getting fainter- he opened his eyes, but darkness had seeped in from all edges, narrowing his vision. He closed his eyes again. His wrists were stinging, and he couldn't move his hands. He didn't want to move his hands.
He was sure he was about to pass out. He smiled. Then there was silence.
Suddenly there was a very distant banging noise, and a very distant part of Sherlock's brain registered it as a door closing. It must be John. Sherlock sat up and blinked. He looked down at his wrists- they weren't bleeding anymore. They still hurt, but had stopped bleeding. His lungs weren't burning either, even as he breathed regularly.
He looked down- the water was permeated with blood. He heard footsteps, and John calling out.
"Sherlock?"
John was coming through to his bedroom, and would see the bathroom light on. Sherlock stood abruptly- he couldn't let John see him like this. He stepped out of the tub, but no wet footprints appeared on the floor.
"Sherlock? Are you in? Look, I wanted to talk to you. I'm sorry."
Sherlock wanted to shout back, to tell John he was here, but something stopped him.
Sherlock's bedroom door opened and closed, and then the bathroom door opened. John stepped in, and saw Sherlock.
"Oh. Oh...God...no," he gasped.
"John?" Sherlock asked, raising his battered arms to touch John, but he couldn't.
"No," John rushed to the tub, letting out a terrible moan, and pushed his hands into the red water.
"John, what are you doing? I'm here," Sherlock told him. John didn't hear him.
"No, Sherlock, no! No!" John cried out, and Sherlock stared. "No! Oh, please, God, no!" he wailed.
John was scrabbling in the water, and Sherlock saw a body. Oh, a body! How interesting! He did love looking at corpses! Maybe John would stop screaming, and let him have a look. How did a body end up in his bath?
He leant forward, and saw himself.
"Ah," he breathed. "Oh."
"Sherlock!" John sobbed. He pulled the corpse out of the tub, and it flopped onto the floor, across John's lap. "Oh, God, Sherlock!"
John's fingers sought a pulse on Sherlock's tattered wrists, and he let out a noise Sherlock wished to never hear, when he found no movement under the skin. "No, no, no, please! Please!"
John lay Sherlock's body on the ground, and started compressions. Sherlock could feel them, as he stood next to his corpse and John, on his chest- terrible, pounding blows on his heart. When John desperately tried to force a breath into Sherlock's lungs, he could feel the lips on his own. He touched his cold mouth, then reached out again for John, but could not touch him. He pressed against the invisible barrier disallowing him from touching the warm, alive body in front of him, but he could not break it.
"John," he called out again. "John! Please!"
John was sobbing, holding the corpse to his chest, rocking back and forth, stroking wet hair, ignoring the blood that stained his clothes, pressing small kisses to the side of a lifeless face.
Sherlock knelt to the ground, sitting as close to John as the barrier would allow, and wept too.
End.
Oh dear. I don't know what's wrong with me. Well, I do know what's wrong with me, but I would have to be paying you all £500 an hour, which is the hourly rate for a top-class shrink.
An exercise in spewing out my problems- I think that is what this piece of writing is. If you're interested in my problems, basically I suffer from a form of PTSD and take pain medication and other pills to deal with it and the nightmares, but it's not a big problem. It means I'm full of angst, which is helpful for plot bunnies. ;)
Thank you for reading this.
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