A/N: This was inspired by luvmyangelofmusic's fanfic, Blind, however this isn't actually part of that fic in any way. Yes I do have permission to post this. I will warn that it is rather dark in comparison. Please keep that in mind.
I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately.
Cold, shining metal.
Pressed delicately against his skull.
His eyes, shut tight.
It didn't matter anyway.
If he opened them, he would only see darkness.
His hands shook on the gun. It must have been the only time he'd ever been so unsure, and he hated it. Even now, in what he believed to be his final hours, he could not keep his hands steady. Through his entire life he'd fought to keep steady in all situations, no matter the cost. And now… now his hands were faltering, his fingers itching to pull the trigger but shaking too much to do so.
He couldn't even fight the tears running down his face. All his life, wasted. Everything he'd ever worked for, gone in a moment. He'd known better in the first place. He'd known there was a bomb, but the puzzle… it had been too tempting, too tantalizing to resist. So resist he hadn't. For once in his life, he'd failed. He'd completed the puzzle with time to spare and only then did he realize: it was a trap. The bomb would go off either way.
There had been no time to get out of the building. He'd thrown John out of the way and yelled at him to run. He'd turned back to where the bomb was, for only a split second, and then it exploded. He couldn't remember much more than the feeling of being lifted in the air, the shards of glass and metal that flew by his face, and then nothing. Darkness.
He'd woken the same way. Met with darkness. And John, of course. Mycroft and John and the others. They didn't have to tell him, and he was glad for it. At least he could work it out for himself.
Sherlock Holmes was blind.
He'd tried to deal with it, he really had. But there was no use for a detective who could not see. Even the attempts to aid him were useless. He knew better than to think anyone would need him anymore.
So he sat on the edge of his favourite chair in the living room, head down, tears running down his face, and gun in hand. The urge to scream became more and more intense, accompanied by rising panic. This was not like him. He was stronger than this. Or so he'd thought.
Still crying, the man forced himself to breathe deeply, to stop the tremors in his hands. He lowered his hand and the gun to his side, waiting. When the tremors remained, he simply gave up.
Sherlock Holmes raised the gun to his head and slowly pulled the trigger.
Bang.