Greg stopped at the door to 221B. It was left ajar, and he felt that this was some important sign something was wrong. But it couldn't be, could it? Sherlock had just sent him a text, asking him to come over, said there was something important he needed him for. Surely that meant this, whatever it was, wasn't -couldn't be all that bad?
"Sherlock?" he called as he stepped in, looking around anxiously. The flat looked empty, and it was quiet, the computer wasn't on the desk, all the lights were off. Just Sherlock hiding out in his room, Greg told himself. Nothing more sinister than that. This wouldn't be the first time he'd come over to this sight.
But Sherlock's room was empty, bare. As if Sherlock hadn't been in there for days, it smelled so musty.
"Sherlock?" His voice was more urgent now as he went out into the flat, looking for something else, a sign somewhere.
There, the bathroom door, there was something dark on the floor there, as if something had seeped out from under it, something that would evaporate and leave a dark red residue.
"No…" he whispered as he took hesitant steps toward it, trying to avoid the stain as he went to the door, but failing. He winced at the sound as he pulled his foot away, the unmistakable ~shluunk~ of tacky blood. There were tears down his cheeks now, he wished he could turn back now, but he couldn't. With a choked sob, he opened the door, only the wall beside him keeping his knees from giving way at what he saw.
John, dead, clearly longer than Sherlock -the latest case, the one Sherlock had mentioned having tougher bad guys, they must have caused it, his mind supplied. And Sherlock, cradling his head close to his chest, a bloody shard of mirror in his hand, his other arm slit from wrist to elbow, he had known exactly what he was doing.
On the counter was a piece of paper, carefully folded, with his name on it. He should leave it there, should let someone else clean up this mess, but he found he couldn't, even through the tears, he couldn't.
-I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye. Or let John. He wanted to, you know, the last night, as he cried out in pain as he begged for something to numb his senses, he also begged to call you, to hear your voice one last time.
I think he knew what I would do. He knew I couldn't do it if I saw you before I did it.
I did love you, you know, all along I did. He did too. We both loved you, and loved each other, and I can't bear to be without him. Or you, I couldn't bear to be without you either. I was supposed to die first. Both of you could be strong. Both of you could live without me. But I couldn't. And I know it must hurt, especially when I say it like this. When I let you discover us. When it's me sending you a message, even though I'm long dead, even though you can't stop it.
I don't expect your forgiveness. I don't deserve that. But please, let us rest in peace together? And give John the sending off he deserves. Some grand gesture, because he was a good man, and a great one.
~Sherlock-
Greg didn't bother to fight the tears as he finished the note. Stupid, stupid Sherlock. Doing this to himself. It wasn't what John would have wanted, and he knew that, and he still-. "Selfish bastard!" he yelled into the quiet, before intense sobs made it unable for him to speak. Sherlock had known this would be how it would end, with him alone, and that only made the hurt worse.