The voices were back. His eyes flew open, scared. No, they couldn't be! But they were, they were back and worse than before. He curled up into the fetal position, his hands over his ears as he tried to block the damned voices out. No, go away, I don't want you here, you don't belong here, leave my mind, now. It wasn't working. They were still here. Why won't they leave? Just go away, you aren't supposed to be here, I don't want you here.
You may think you don't want us here, but trust us, you do, the voices replied in unison before gibbering away, each voice saying something different. He didn't know how many there were, but the one that always stuck out to him was HIS voice. The smooth baritone sent shudders through him.
No, I don't, why can't you just leave me in peace, what are you doing here still? I'm evicting you as of now.
The voices all laughed, as if he'd made a good joke. HIS laugh was mocking, laughing at him. Good idea. Let us know when that works out. Because it won't. Ever. You're stuck with us. Forever. We're your ghosts, John Watson.
He flinched at his name. No doctor or captain before it. Just his name. Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was his official title. Well, he wasn't practicing anymore not since… John sobbed when he thought of that day. The day when his best friend and amazing genius and brilliant detective threw himself off a building while John watched, unable to do anything. The day Sherlock Holmes killed himself.
No since then, John hadn't been able to do much more than sit in the quiet flat, reliving memories over and over. He barely ate, couldn't sleep more than an hour at a time. Time and money was running out, he knew somewhere in his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Yes, because why would you care over something so silly as money? HIS voice asked, the voice of the late detective Sherlock Holmes. The voice never said anything nice, always mocking him, always making fun of his decisions. And it hurt. More than almost anything, more than the bullet that pierced his shoulder, though not more than the pain that had pierced his heart when his best friend and mate committed suicide.
No, stop talking. Let me have five minutes of peace, please, John begged. He didn't feel ashamed of begging anymore. He'd done it so often lately.
Well, idiot, let me explain something to you. There is no such thing as peace. Not with me around. That time of not talking for days on end are over, have been since I met you. Obvious really.
The voice mocked him, bringing up their first encounter. John moaned and tried to curl further into himself. Then he sat up, suddenly determined.
Fine, I'll silence you myself. John knew what he had to do. He walked down the stairs and into the living room, over to the desk where his gun lay in a drawer. He opened it, staring at the Browning inside before curling his hand around that familiar grip.
*Sherlock POV*
He hesitated at the door. Mrs. Hudson had informed him that John was here today, whereas most days he spent all his time at the surgery, only coming back to 221B to sleep. He wouldn't accept any food. He'd been getting thinner, due to the lack of Mrs. Hudson's nutritious meals, no doubt. Walking through the outer door, he paused when he heard footsteps going down the upper stairs, the ones that led from the living room to John's bedroom.
Where was John going? Ah, the footsteps turned and creaked on the living room floor instead of continuing on down the stairs. Good, very good. He could still surprise John.
The creaks stopped near the desk as Sherlock stepped through the inner door. He hesitated once again, nerves besting him for a few seconds.
*John's POV*
He squeezed the gun's grip, feeling all the little ridges and mostly likely imprinting them into his hand. The door downstairs opened, then closed again. Mrs. Hudson, no doubt.
John, what are you doing?
His voice drawled out, lazily, not really caring.
I'm shutting you up, once and for all. John shut his eyes and placed the barrel of the gun in his mouth.
You're a soldier, John, though you haven't been acting like one. Show me what you're made of. Shut me up, for now and always. Go on. It won't take but a single twitch of a finger and I'm gone forever. And so are you.
John gasped, his eyes flying open again, falling to his knees on the floor. The temple would be easier, he thought, that's a much quicker path to you.
Oh good, John, very good.
The praise sounded nice. He relaxed a bit, determined, fierce, ready. I can't live without you, so I'm going to die with you.
Sounds nice, doesn't it? Death. The final problem, the one no one can solve. Not even me. People have died, people are dying, people will still die, because that's what people do, John. They are born, they live these tiny, short, inconsequential lives, then die.
It sounded so like the detective that John jumped a little, automatically looking around for the tall man before realizing what he was doing.
Sherlock? John asked in his mind.
What, John? There was a note of impatience. John smiled.
I love you.
There was a blessed cessation of noise before a cacophony of noises hit, nearly drowning that voice that sounded so real.
No, John, don't do this! Don't! I saved myself for you, I waited for you, I faked my death to keep you safe, and you're just going to throw all that away? You're going to throw me away? Don't you dare!
"Oh, how I love you," John whispered out loud before pulling the trigger.
*Sherlock POV*
A thump sounded, startling the calming detective. He stared up the stairs, brow furrowed. There was a small click, almost like…
The genius's eyes widened and he sprinted up the stairs. He burst through the door, splinters showering. He didn't look around the room, he didn't see if anything had changed. No, he stared horror filled at the sight in front of him.
John was kneeling, gun to his head, smiling peacefully, his eyes closed.
Sherlock started shouting.
"No, John, don't do this! Don't! I saved myself for you, I waited for you, I faked my own death to keep you safe, and you're just going to throw all that away? You're going to throw me away? Don't you dare!"
John sat there so calm, a gun to his head, held by his own hand, eyes still closed. In a whisper almost too soft to reach the tall man's ears, he spoke.
"Oh, how I love you."
He pulled the trigger.
Sherlock fell again. This time, however, his physical body wasn't what went flying through the air, only to smash into pieces on the pavement below. It was his heart.
He dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse, a heartbeat, a breath, any sign that his beloved doctor was still alive.
Nothing.
Sherlock keened, high and long. He screamed at the walls. He hurled questions at any higher power there might be. Why?! Why would you let him do this?!
Then, after a few minutes, Sherlock's mind cleared. He knew what to do. It would make everything better.
He stood and walked into his old bedroom, searching for something he kept around to occupy himself before John Watson.
It was hidden under his sock index. It was still sharp, not rusty or dulled by the years gone by. He contemplated where to cut first as he walked out of the room, back into the living room where his flatmate laid on the floor, a hole in his head, blood still pooling beneath him.
Femoral artery, popliteal artery, brachial artery. Thigh, calf, arm. The more cuts, the faster it drains. 5 on each. If not enough, continue adding, especially femoral artery.
Sherlock distanced his mind, centering it on one thing. John. Soon he would be with John again. They would laugh together, run around together, maybe even be reincarnated and chase criminals again together. He didn't feel the first cut, or the second, or even the third. He was so far gone he didn't feel anything. He could feel the blood draining from his body. It was going slowly. Too slowly. He added cuts, everywhere on his body now, letting them drain, reopening closing wounds so they would continue to bleed. Soon he was too weak to hold the razor blade anymore. It clattered to the floor. He still stared at the limp figure of Dr. John Watson. Eventually he fell forward, on top of his dead friend. Barely strong enough to open his mouth, he somehow managed a weak, "I love you, John."
*The next day*
London News
"Famous hat detective, found last year to be faking own death, once again a suicide statistic"
The Morning Tea
"Famous detective found dead in flat with sidekick, both fresh suicides"
The Cabbie
"Double suicide, internationally known detective and doctor"
The funerals were held together at the same place. The two men were buried side by side, and on windy nights, many swore to have heard violin music playing from their graves. Some even claimed to have seen the ghosts of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sitting on their respective gravestones, either talking together or one listening while the other played his instrument.
Some still believe that Sherlock Holmes lives.
But who knows what to believe?
ANNNNNNNNND… That's where I leave you, my lovelies! Thank you for reading, review if you wish, I won't be for a few months so we'll see where you guys take this.
Loves!
~CherokeeWind