This has been revised. Warnings: Suicidal thoughts/actions. Slight implied Johnlock.
Enjoy!
John's POV
All I have is a bottle of pills. I hold the bottle in one hand and water in the other. I know I have to take every pill or this wont work. As a doctor, I know what it takes to overdose and I have to do this right.
Five pills down.
I look up into the shadows of the dark flat. I am glad the lights aren't on. This place used to feel like home. I don't even recognize it anymore. It's empty.
Five more down.
Deep breaths. Then another five. I inspect my water bottle. I don't have much left. Why didn't grab two bottles? Stupid. I sallow more pills with less water and one gets stuck in my throat. I gag a few times and then its down. I look down inside the pill container to count how many groups of five I have to take.
I dump what's left onto my palm. I've got 12 more to go. Three more swallows. I lift the water bottle up to my face. I think I can do it. The first group goes down easy. Five more. My stomach twist. Is it happening already? It can't be; they're capsules. I swallow the last two and marvel that I still have a sip of water left. I finish it and lie back down on the couch.
Drowsily, I reach over and attempt to grab my phone. It first moves farther away from me on the side table, but reaching more I am able to grasp it in my hand. Pressing the phone symbol I select the second name on the call log, trying my best to ignore the first name.
"DI Lestrade." After a few rings.
"Lestrade. It's John.. I need..tell you.."
"John, what?" Lestrade questions, and then sighs. "What's happened? Are you ok?"
"Yes. I just wanted to say.." I stop, unable to stop my voice from shaking.
"John. What the hell is wrong?" Lestrade asks, urgency in his voice.
"No. It's fine. It-it's all fine," I slur.
"John?!"
The phone slides out of my hand snapping closed when it hits the floor.
I don't feel good.
I feel like I am going to throw up. I can't do that or everything will be ruined. I called Lestrade. I can't even remember why..Maybe I just wanted someone to know. I can't throw up. Don't puke, I say in my head. I don't.
I close my eyes. I am relaxed. I want this. I imagine the floor suddenly shooting light from underneath me, microscopic particles of happiness releasing and penetrating my skin. Through my clothes, I feel it. I swear I can. A warm sensation runs up my leg. Are the lights on now? My eyes droop. It's still dark. But, I can feel the happiness. It's real.
I lie perfectly still for a while. The absolute silence is calming.
A sharp prickle starts in my fingertips and pulses with each heartbeat. I opened and close my hand a few times, then rub the smooth, soft blanket beneath me. I can't feel anything. My hands are numb. I slowly lick my lips. Or do I? I can't tell.
I use everything I have left to reach my hand up and feel my neck. My pulse is rapid. And soon it will be gone. The thought makes me smile. I'll see Sherlock again.
Shit. I don't feel good. I have no sense of time. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to pry my eyelids open. They form slits, but refuse to stay that way. I give in and just close them. I fish for my meds bag, pulling it to my side. It's still unzipped. I fumble around, not sure what I am looking for.. Stupid. My stomach really hurts. I can't puke. I lie back down, eyes failing me.
I hear a noise downstairs.
Sherlock? Can't be. He's dead..
"John!"
I miss him.
I try to remember his smell. I can't do it. My eyes won't open. I love him. I love you, Sherlock.
He smells like cigarettes...
How many of those pills did I take? I really can't remember. There's that noise downstairs again. It sounds like Mrs. Hudson's come home. I call, not sure why, but there is no answer. Perhaps she had guests. Then I hear footsteps. They're heavy footsteps, coming up the stairs. I can't move, though. I'm so tired and the medicine is starting to take effect. I lay on the couch motionless, waiting for the source of the noise to be revealed.
Before he even comes into view, I know exactly whom it is. Tears start to stream down my face. It's his scent. He smells like he always does, like cigarettes.
"Sherlock, help me," I barely whisper, trying to sit up. He leans over the couch, his face coming into view. I can't help but start to sob violently, hiccupping from the force.
"John, what did you do?" Sherlock asked, peering at the bottle of pills on the table.
"I wanted to die…I don't have anything to live for." For the longest time, he stands there, just staring at me, before kneeling down and embracing me as tightly as he can.
"Come on, John. We're going to the hospital." I nod into his shoulder, my tears staining his shirt. He retracts for only a second, his eyes locked onto mine. He's almost crying too.
"You're going to be ok," he sniffs, wiping away a few tears on my face.
"Welcome home, Sherlock," I manage to say.
I start to close my eyes, but as I do, Sherlock's face disappears and Lestrade's grim face comes into view.
"Oh, John, what have you done?"
A/N Please let me know what you thought!