AN-I just made myself really sad. Thank you to tumblr user as-sane-as-avenging-sherlock for the prompt. Inspired by "Forgetting" by David Gray.
Sherlock folded the letter and put it on the coffee table. Surely John would be able to find it.
They were shouting over each other, neither one actually listening to the other or thinking of what they were saying.
He glanced around the flat to make sure everything was in order. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be very happy if she had to clean up later.
Grabbing her coat, she stormed out of the flat and slammed the door.
He walked over to the mantle. Lifting Bill, he retrieved the items he needed.
He stared out the window in agitation. He was on his third pack of cigarettes when his phone rang.
He walked over to the bedroom. Stepping into the dark room, he shut the door behind him and locked it.
He didn't know how he managed to arrive at St. Bart's, but now he was standing in the hallway listening as a doctor tried to explain what had happened.
He carefully sat down on the bed. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.
The machines were beeping too rapidly. The doctors were moving about in a blur. He was pushed outside into the hall to wait in agony.
He tied the tourniquet around his bicep tightly. He found the vein rather easily.
They had tried their best. That's what they told him. He stepped into the room and saw her. It was like she was sleeping, but he know this was a sleep from which she would never awaken.
He pushed the needle in and depressed the plunger, letting the poison fill his blood. It wouldn't be long now.
Reaching over, he grabbed her picture and held it to him. He wanted to forget everything, her smile, the smell of her skin, the warmth of her eyes, the way her arms felt like home. It all hurt too much.
His eyes slipped shut. His mind went blank. Finally, all the painful memories were gone. Nothing else mattered anymore. He was going home to her; he was going home to his Molly.