The Colt Government 1911 A1 fit perfectly in John Watson's hand, the carved ivory grip hugging his palm as if it had been made for him. Delicate engraving of ivy inlaid with gold added to the elegance of the weapon, but John looked past that. Appearance did not matter; how the piece performed did. He ejected the magazine, racked the slide, and began to dissemble the 1911, all the while reciting its specs to himself- calibre: .45 ACP; capacity: eight in the magazine plus one in the chamber; single action. Anything to keep his mind off what he was about to do.
For the second time in his life, John was contemplating suicide.
Chronic severe depression was what his therapist had diagnosed him with. It sounded so simple on paper- a condition treated with drugs and even more therapy. He just needed to open up, talk about how his friend's suicide had affected him. Just needed to move on with his life.
No words could describe the hollow that had taken the place of his heart. Nothing was left for John, no one to mourn him, nor miss him, nor wake up in the night after a bad dream and reach for him, only to find his side of the bed cold and empty.
Watching Sherlock jump was the worst experience of his life. Getting shot at, and eventually shot, in Afghanistan, did not even come close to the absolute horror of watching his only friend in the world toss his mobile behind him, extend his arms like a bird preparing to take flight, and step over the edge.
John decided that a part of himself had also died that day, had fallen to its death along with Sherlock. Legs and arms flailing until the ground rushed up to meet him with the sickening report of breaking bones that he kept hearing over and over, repeated an infinite amount of times in every waking moment and especially in his dreams. Even now, three months, ten days, and nine hours later, it felt as if he was trapped on the day his life changed irrevocably on the sidewalk in front of St. Bart's Hospital.
The dark crimson of his lifeblood sprayed upon the concrete, the pale white of his skin next to the darkness of his trench coat. John kept reliving the memory, struggling to look for some way the great Sherlock Holmes could have cheated death. His mind kept flashing to his friend's eyes- changeable and depthless as the ocean. One second they were the blue deep, mysterious blue of the Caribbean, the next they were as silver as sea foam. Viridian green: hard, cold and judging; aquamarine: hints of laughter, warmth, and affection. Each colour revealed a different depth of Sherlock, another shade of his personality. John had almost been able to read his moods simply by the amount of blue pigment in his irises: the bluer, the more content he was. It was just a theory, of course, a hypothesis that he had never gotten a chance to prove as correct.
After Sherlock fell, after John had ran to his side, he had looked into his flatmate's eyes for any sign of life. Blankly the detective stared back, his gaze lifeless and cloudy, irises a pale grey like the concrete he was lying on.
And now John was more alone than he had ever been before. He had been given a glimpse of what life could be like at Sherlock's side- exciting and dangerous and full of adventure. While he had been second to the detective's Work, his Game, John had not minded. Being second had seemed better than being nothing at all.
Every part of the pistol was in working order, John decided, letting the soldier portion of his mind take over as he deftly reassembled the work of art. He had found it in Sherlock's things; a beautiful weapon for a man with a beautiful mind. Going back to 221B Baker Street had brought on a torrent of terrible memories, reminders of the good times mixed in with the sorrow of the present. His therapist had quoted an ancient philosopher at him," There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief." The statement rang painfully true now, as John glanced around at his surroundings. Most of Sherlock's belongings were now boxed up, thanks to his and Mrs. Hudson's efforts. A few pieces of lab equipment still littered the kitchen table, and only God knew what experiments were hidden around the flat, waiting patiently for the detective's return.
But he never would be back, and that thought tore at the ruined remains of John's heart. He stared down at the fully assembled 1911 cradled in his hands, expecting some part of his mind to rebel against the idea of ending his own life.
Last time he had found himself in this position, he had just come back from Afghanistan. Without the Army, his life had no direction, and he felt no pull to get an ordinary job in a hospital or clinic. He drifted along in his life like a ship without an anchor or sails. Along came Sherlock, who had fallen into his life like a shooting star, burning out his depression and even helping John get rid of his psychosomatic limp. No more nightmares of war, of his comrades being murdered in front of him, plagued his sleep.
The dreams of Sherlock falling were much worse than anything John had experienced before. He couldn't tear himself out of the scene; his subconscious made him watch as his friend impacted the cold, unforgiving concrete. Every time he woke up, he found himself whispering, "Don't be dead. Please don't be dead."
Sherlock had been his Polaris, his guiding light out of the darkness of his past. John, in return, had been the consulting detective's conscience, a small enough service for the direction he had given the doctor.
Learning to love the detective had been a test of John's selflessness, a plumbing of the depths of his endurance. He had compared it in his mind to jumping out of a plane without a parachute. The ride was full of adrenaline, keeping him focused on the thrill of the fall, the excitement of the ride. Each new case had tightened their bond; even churlishness on the detective's part did not put him off, too much at least. Eyes closed, he could pretend that it would never end, that he would stay at Sherlock's side forever. Impact had struck out of nowhere, but it had not killed the doctor. Rather, it had torn the heart out of his chest and crushed it on the sidewalk beside his flatmate.
Loving Sherlock was like swimming in the ocean his eyes so resembled. Danger was everywhere, in the sharks and other creatures hidden beneath the waves, in broken bottles and bits of litter on the sea floor, and even in the waves themselves. The tides were as unpredictable as the detective's moods- one second welcoming and calm, the next lashing out at the land with wind-whipped fury. The beauty of the water blinded him from the risks, and he jumped in headfirst. Only when he hit the bottom, when the rip current seized his body and dragged him out to sea, did he see his mistake.
The weight of the pistol balanced comfortably in John's hand as he raised it to the side of his head. One final bit of pain, if he even had time to feel that much, and then his life would end. Mrs. Hudson was visiting her grandchildren in the countryside for the next few days; he had planted the idea in her mind, telling her that he wanted a bit of time alone with Sherlock's things as he tidied up the flat for her. She had been all too eager to agree, ready to leave behind the ever-present ghost of Sherlock. Hopefully someone would come to visit him and discover his body before she got home.
Not likely Lestrade. The Detective Inspector had been standing over Sherlock's grave, with one hand on his tombstone the last time John had seen him. He placed a single rose on the freshly turned dirt and spoke quietly, his words aimed at the ground. When he turned to leave, he caught sight of the doctor; John had stopped several feet away from the DI and had his hands clenched into fists. Hastily, he wiped tears away with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry, John…" he began, only to be silenced by the impact of the doctor's fist to his jaw.
"It's your fault!" he snarled, shoving Lestrade against the gravestone and drawing his arm back for another swing. "You let them spread the rumours about him. You added to Moriarty's credibility."
"I'm so, so sorry," the detective repeated, holding his jaw where a bruise was already beginning to form, but making no move to fight back. The pity in his gaze made John even angrier, fuelled the desire to pummel Lestrade for his role, no matter how small, in Sherlock's death. He let go of his collar instead and turned on his heel, striding off without a glance back. He hadn't heard a word from the DI since.
And then there was Mycroft, who had taken to randomly dropping by to check on John. No hour was too early or too late for him to stop by; he only stayed long enough to enjoy a cuppa and give a vaguely worded warning that went usually something like, "If I were you, I wouldn't do anything stupid like try and take my own life. Chronic severe depression, was that right? Are you doing anything to take care of your condition?"
"Does it matter?" John asked woodenly. "He's gone."
"He wouldn't have wanted you to waste away like this," Mycroft objected, his expression unreadable except for a slight tic under his left eye.
"Would he have noticed? If he failed to realize when I left to go get groceries or go to work…" The rest of the sentence was lost as a sob threatened to tear itself out of John's throat. He covered his face with his one hand and hunched over, clutching at his chest with the other as if he could hold together the broken shards of his heart.
He began to suspect that Mycroft felt responsible for his well-being, even going as far to suggest that a small government position would be waiting for him if he pulled himself together. "We could use a principled man like you in our ranks, Doctor Watson."
He rebuffed him with a simple, concise, "No."
Pity was in the man's eyes, in everyone's eyes. Everywhere he looked he saw pity, even in his sister Harry's clumsy attempt to convince him to move in with her. She had taken to drinking again after her divorce was finalized.
All of that was about to end. He adjusted the muzzle against his temple, pressing just lightly enough to ensure good contact. One pull of the trigger and a full metal jacket round would enter his brain at 523 metres per second, propelled by a standard military load of 230 grains of black powder. Then oblivion, whatever waited beyond the veil of his current life. Anything was better than the black well of his current existence.
A bit of doubt played at the edge of his mind. What if the placement of the muzzle was wrong, and the bulled failed to kill him? What if he was a vegetable for the rest of his life, able to see and comprehend the world around him, yet trapped in a body that did not allow him to speak?
His shoulder began to ache with the phantom pain of the bullet he had taken in Afghanistan. To still the disquieted whispers in his mind, he pulled the gun from his temple to under his chin, and then finally rested the barrel in his mouth, angled in such a way that it would pass through the cerebral cortex and hopefully provide instantaneous death.
With his free hand, he checked that the notes he had written were beside him. "A note. Isn't that what people do?" Sherlock's perfect baritone echoed in John's ears as if he was in the next room. One for Harry, for Mrs. Hudson, and one to place on Sherlock's gravestone.
As his index finger tightened on the trigger, John Watson sent up a quick prayer for forgiveness to the God he had not spoken to since after Sherlock's fall. A single tear spilled out of each eye as the finality of the act he was about to commit truly hit home. No more sadness, no more being without Sherlock. He fixed an image of Sherlock, of his one friend, smiling, his bright, animated eyes dancing with obvious glee, and gently squeezed the trigger.
The world seemed to slow and come into startling focus, so much that he imagined he was able to hear the instant the firing pin struck the bullet. Then nothing.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first chapter of my story! The quote "There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief," was said by Aeschylus, a Greek dramatist who lived from approximately 525 to 456 B.C. I based this story off the songs 'Waves' by Blondfire), 'Falling' and 'Cosmic Love' by Florence + the Machine, 'Ghosts that We Knew' by Mumford + Sons, 'Summertime Sadness' by Lana Del Rey, 'Here With Me' by The Killers, and 'Artificial Nocturne' by Metric.