TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE
Inspired by a fan art.
It had been a month and a half since Sherlock had jumped from 's, and John was just beginning to leave the room. had been the one to feed John over that time, making sure he didn't starve. The first few weeks had been the most painful, John had tried to keep it together and sleep in his own room, but ultimately found himself in Sherlock's, wrapping himself in the sheets and breathing in his scent. The days and nights had been occupied by two activities. Crying, and sitting in silence, as if waiting for Sherlock to come home and tell John it was all a big joke.
John opened the door for the first time since Sherlock jumped, and looked down. A package sat on the steps, it was rather large and flat, like a box one would receive clothes in. The card taped to it had his name on it so he brought the package inside, setting it on the dinner table and going to retrieve scissors.
he cut the twine holding the top and bottom together and pulled out the card.
'He wanted you to have this. -MH'
John didn't have to see the name to know who 'he' was. Sherlock.
Somehow, even before he opened the box, John knew what was inside, but actually opening it, his heart stopped all the same. He reached out and ran a hand over the dark blue wool, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. He had never cried about death, and yet, here he was, tearing up over a piece of clothing. It wasn't the clothing that made him so emotional, it was what it meant. He carefully picked the precious scarf out of the box and pressed his face to it, hiding his tears within the fabric as he inhaled.
John nearly tripped over himself getting up, clutching the wool to his chest as he stumbled towards the bedroom. He spent the rest of the day inside Sherlock's bed, curled up around the scarf. To John, Sherlock was more than just a person. He was a life. He was adventure and puzzles and danger, and John wouldn't have had it any other way. He was wild and exiting and maddening, but he was the best thing in the army doctor's life. The violin concerts at two in the morning, the miscellaneous body parts in the freezer, staying up till all hours of the night on a case, they were the best parts or John's life. Now, he had nothing.
No, what he had was an empty house and an empty heart, both with a gaping hole right through the middle.
A bit after night fell, it seemed John had run out of tears. He wrapped Sherlock's scarf around a support beam and brought the detective's footstool underneath it. John gripped his phone in one hand and dialed Mycroft's number. He closed his eyes as he waited for him to pick up.
"John?"
"Hello." Just with that one word, John's voice cracked, sending only shards of the word across.
"Why are you calling?"
"I wanted you to be the last person I talk to. You're not him, but you sound alike."
"... How are you going to do it?" John nearly laughed. Of course Mycroft would ask.
"Hanging." John said simply. There was no need for any more.
"How fitting, John. You choosing to 'jump' and all... he did too."
"I suppose that was rather the point."
"You know there are other options. You can get grief counseling, anti-depressants, there are plenty of things."
"Will they bring him back?"
"No. They won't."
"Then I guess this is goodbye" John let the phone fall from his ear and to the floor below, the call still running. He tilted his head back and whispered something inaudible, something just for him to hear. John moved one foot back before bringing it forward again, kicking the stool out from underneath himself and sending him into darkness.
~ Almost three years later ~
Sherlock ran up the stairs to 221 Baker street and burst in the door, thankful it was unlocked. He gripped his key with shaking hands and inserted it in the lock upstairs, pushing the door open and taking in what he saw.
Everything was how it had been when he left, though now it was covered in a thick layer of dust. He frowned and walked through the kitchen, calling John's name. When he wasn't in the dining room, his own room, or either of the bathrooms, Sherlock looked in his own bedroom. the sheets were ruffled, like someone had been sleeping in them, but long ago, since there was the same cover of dust on those. His stool was missing, though he supposed it could have gotten broken.
He took out his own phone and dialed John's number. It went straight to voicemail. He tried Mycroft's phone.
"Sherlock?"
"Mycroft, I wouldn't call you if it weren't important. Where's John?" Sherlock hated having to resort to his brother, but it was the only other person who would know where John had gone. He obviously hadn't been to the flat in at least two years. "He's not at the flat, and I don't think he would have moved out. All his things are still here, but there's dust everywhere-"
"Sherlock.. I wanted to tell you, I really did."
"Tell me what?" Sherlock demanded.
"John, he... he died. I'm so sorry Sherlock."
Sherlock's heart stopped for a moment. "No." that can't be possible, I did this so he would be safe, how could he be dead? "No. He can't."
Mycroft sighed into the phone. "He did. Sherlock, you were gone for three years. He thought you were dead."
"What does that have to do with any-" Sherlock stopped, sudden realisation dawning on him. "thing..."
"I'm so sorry Sherlock,"
"Was the funeral-"
"Beautiful, Sherlock."
"Good, John deserves no less." Sherlock sat down on his bed, already regretting his next question before he even asked it. "How?"
"He hung himself..." Sherlock could tell Mycroft was leaving something out.
"Details?" he asked.
"Sherlock, I really don't think you want to know-"
"Tell me." Sherlock ordered.
"It was in your room. He called me and told me he was going to do it-"
"Why didn't you stop him!?"
"Sherlock, let me finish. He used your scarf, in your room, on your footstool. He told me it's because he couldn't bring you back."
"Are you saying it's MY fault!?" Sherlock shouted into the phone.
"It is your fault!"
Both ends went silent. Sherlock sat for a few seconds before Mycroft spoke again.
"I'm sorry. That was too far."
"..Yeah.." Sherlock whispered, his voice wispy in the effort to flight back a crushing sense of guilt. He hung up and threw his phone to the floor in anger, breaking it into three pieces. He covered his face with his hands and slumped over.
In the place he and John had once shared a home, in the same room that wonderful doctor had taken his own life, on a bed covered in three years worth of dust, Sherlock cried.
Two months later, on the anniversary of John's death, Sherlock drowned himself in the bathtub on the second floor of 221B baker street. He didn't call or leave a note, since he had do one he would leave a note for. He was clutching that blue scarf to his chest when he died, thinking of John and praying that maybe they would end up in the same place, and not worlds away.
People, so full of sentiment.
I will probably add a little epilogue of how John and Sherlock's suicides effected the rest of the world, but I want to know who wants it. If you liked the angst, please review, or just PM me and say 'Hi', either is fine ^.^
