A/N: Oh howdy all!

I've had the idea for this fic for a looooong time. This isn't necessarily a song!fic, but it IS based on the wonderful Adam Lambert song of the same name.

TRIGGER WARNING: ATTEMPTED SUICIDE, PREVIOUS ATTEMPTS MENTIONED, POSSIBLE SELF-HARM LATER. IF ANY OF THE PREVIOUS THINGS BOTHER YOU, PLEASE FIND ANOTHER FIC TO READ!

Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle own everything. I do not. Please don't sue me.

The flat was dark. Completely and utterly black.

He sat on the sofa, more like a statue than a living, breathing human. His hands were not steepled beneath his chin. The brilliant hard drive lay bowed as he sat rigidly upright.

On the coffee table in front of him lay a razor. Next to it rested a small pile of ordinary kitchen knives.

And next to him, laying heavily on the cushion, there was John's revolver.

Both long fingered hands ruffled his hair in an agitated way. His pale eyes were wild, almost feral looking.

He raised his head, gnashed teeth together as he drummed pale fingers against his knee. When he reached out to take the razor, his left hand trembled violently. He glared at it in fury, as though it had wronged him. Gripping his wrist tightly with his right hand proved useless; it trembled as much as the left.

Sherlock took deep, shuddering breaths. What on Earth was happening to him? He knew, of course he knew. But that didn't make it any easier to understand.

The consulting detective shut his eyes, entering his mind palace. He took only a stitch of comfort in its familiar structure. Because he knew, that the more time he spent here, the more likely he was to enter the wing he had recently created for-

A stab of white hot pain tore through his chest, drawing out a cry of anguish like Sherlock was a dying animal. He opened his eyes, blinking; desperate to rid himself of the tears that had gathered there. Taking in deep, shuddering breaths, his fingers clenched so tightly around the razor that his knuckles went white. He allowed his eyes to slip closed.

Now was time for remembering, to catalog every piece of information he had regarding John Watson. Time to bring the pain forward so he could numb it, quiet it.

It was the only thing he could do to keep himself from shattering.

From the moment he had met John, he had begun erecting a piece of his mind palace specifically for the ex-army doctor. He had originally created a small room, more of a closet really. But as time went on and Sherlock learned more and more and started to become...attached to John, the closet grew to a hall, then a room, and finally an entire wing.

And as the space grew, so too did Sherlock's feelings for John. This made him insanely uncomfortable, but soon enough he'd told John and they had been together ever since.

But now, Sherlock was certain that the whole thing was now in tatters. He had done it, he knew he had. He knew it from the second he'd opened his mouth.

And yet, the fact that their relationship was ruined still seemed incomprehensible. Every few moments his ears strained, thinking he heard the sound of footsteps. Every time, he was disappointed. Logically, of course, he knew he was being ridiculous. Mycroft had told him that "caring is not an advantage".

That, he realized, was the biggest piece of bullshit he had ever heard in his life.

Caring when it came to John was the biggest advantage he'd ever had.

He let out a gasp of pain when his eyes opened. The razor was still gripped in his hand, so hard his fingers throbbed. He paid that no mind. Violently, he rolled up his sleeve to his elbow, gazing unfeelingly along the great expanse of unmarred flesh.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he pressed the blade to his forearm and watched himself bleed. He had always felt better, calmer, after these sessions.

And as he stopped the movement of the razor, just above his wrist, he did feel slightly calmer.

But better? No. Not better.

Blood trickled onto the floor, yet he made no effort to stem its flow.

Honestly, he wished he'd cut deeper. Then, he could stop this guilt, this pain, this...this absolute torture of sentiment.

He could stop feeling.

Forever.

A/N: Guys...wow. I did not expect it to get so angst-y so fast. It just kind of...did? So, um, yeah. PLEASE tell me what you think, I haven't done angst or Johnlock. Hope you enjoyed it so far!