Possible triggers.
Sherlock stood in the living room of the flat, staring into the flames of the fireplace. There was so much he wanted to tell John. Sherlock thought John would have caught onto his depression, but it appeared now he was wrong. He isn't that kind of doctor, Sherlock reminded himself.
Sherlock sighed and glanced down at the knife he had in his hand. Suicide was looked down on in their society. They all said it was a disgraceful and selfish act. That someone who commits suicide is weak and can't face their problems. They are at the lowest of lows. Perhaps that was why Moriarty went to such lengths to ensure every shred of dignity Sherlock had was stripped away from him.
But that was all over, wasn't it? His name was cleared and he was back, "being Sherlock Holmes", as John had put it. That was all John had wanted for them, Sherlock supposed. The cold detective and his blogger, having many adventures together. That was probably enough for Sherlock too, when they had first begun. Old habits die hard.
Sherlock began to sharpen the knife he held. It was already very sharp, but he wanted to make sure there was no margin for error.
Valentine's Day. Sherlock writhed with hatred for the "holiday". What was the point of the wretched day? Make standards those with a valentine are required to meet and heartache for those who don't have a valentine? Ridiculous. Another absolutely unnecessary holiday, only useful now to the marketers.
John seemed to be fond of the holiday, though, no matter how much Sherlock argued with him over its validity. In fact, John had been looking forward to his date with Amanda for weeks. All month he was pacing around the flat, trying to figure out what he should do for her this upcoming Valentine's Day. Pity she was losing interest in John. Well, that wasn't the pitiful part. The pitiful part was John couldn't see it. Sherlock was actually happy about it. He never liked her. Amanda liked to think it was okay to move his science equipment. She ruined an experiment he had going on for months last time she was over.
With John gone, he had the entire flat to himself. All of them, really. Everyone in 221A-E were out on dinner dates. Besides 221C, which was empty, of course. Sherlock paused and replayed his last thought. 221C was empty. Of course. It was the perfect place to do it.
Sherlock removed his coat and scarf and hung them over his chair. He peeked out of 221B and checked the halls. He knew only Mrs. Hudson was home, but he didn't want to risk her heart breaking any sooner than it had to. Sherlock dashed through the hall and picked the lock to the empty flat.
Sherlock took a deep breath and then let it out. He watched his air float away from his mouth, accompanied by the dust particles that were stirred when he came into the lonely room. 221C wasn't heated because there was no tenant, so each time he breathed there was a visible fog. The window shades were closed, but falling apart, which left streaks of the day's last golden sunbeams to splatter the room with dim light.
Slowly, Sherlock sat in the center of the dying room. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes. Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, re-watching all of his favorite moments. Images of his early childhood, Redbeard, and the first case he ever solved flashed before his eyes. But the more frequent and treasured memories came last. John. John was everywhere. All the cases they had solved together, their days in the flat, the shared laughs, the chases, the danger. The love.
Sherlock opened his eyes, abandoning his mind palace. He let the pressured saltwater behind his eyes fall down his cheek. It was too much to look at all at once. Sherlock was kicking himself for even thinking that watching his memories was a good idea.
He dried his face and took another deep breath. This was it. He couldn't go on any more. The depression was deeply rooted in his head, ever since childhood. It wasn't something that just went away. Mycroft always tried to challenge Sherlock to get his mind off the sadness. But nothing could ever stop him from going back to those hauntingly familiar thought patterns.
Sherlock pulled a neatly folded piece of stationary from his pocket. He unfolded it and read it quietly to himself, checking every word. It had to be perfect. Once he was that everything was expressed correctly, he refolded it and set it in his lap.
Sherlock rolled his white shirt's sleeves up to his elbows. He let a small, weak smile form as he brushed his fingers against the scars on his left forearm. Some were light, some dark. Some fresh, some old, some thick and some thin. Each was unique and had their own story. Sherlock reflected on each one of them. Some were so old they had long faded, but he remembered where every mark had been.
Finally, Sherlock brought the razor sharp knife to his wrist. He inhaled sharply, but quietly, as he dragged the bottom, serrated part of the knife across his wrist. The sharp points clawed into his arm, digging away towards the inner tissues and arteries. The smooth half of the blade reached his body and finished the job, severing Sherlock's ulnar artery.
Sherlock flinched as his own blood spurted up like a fountain, splattering blood onto his face. He stared at the fascinating sight for a bit before he was satisfied it would be enough. Then he laid down, already starting to feel the warm pool of blood creep around him, staining his clothes. Sherlock took the folded note from his lap and into his hand. He closed his eyes as his strength began to drain from him and he prepared to meet his own judgment.
John trudged up the stairs to 221B. Amanda had broken up with him on their date. After dinner, no less. After! Plus it was Valentine's Day! He had been worried sick about tonight and spent weeks making sure everything was perfect. All for nothing. Valentine's Day couldn't get any worse, he thought to himself and walked into the flat.
"Sherlock?" John looked throughout the apartment for his roommate. "Sherlock? Where are you?"
John chuckled, "I know you haven't got a date, so you're sulking here somewhere. Come on out."
The following silence became more eerie with each passing second. Something was wrong.
"Sherlock?" John looked around the flat again. He popped his head out the door. "Mrs. Hudson?"
"Yes? John is that you?" Mrs. Hudson called back from her own apartment on the first floor.
"Yes, do you know where-"
"Don't you have a date?"
"Yeah, I did. She broke it off."
"On Valentine's Day?!" Mrs. Hudson yelled.
"Yes. On Valentine's Day. Where's-"
"The nerve of some girls! Well, if she comes 'round here again I'll have a thing or two to say-"
"Mrs. Hudson!" John yelled a little too loudly. "Where is Sherlock?"
"In the flat, last time I saw," she answered.
"He's not here!"
"Oh God knows where he went off to. God knows…" Mrs. Hudson's voice trailed off and John heard her retreat back into her flat.
John was about to do the same, but something caught his eye. The door to 221C, the apartment next door, was slightly ajar. That's odd, John thought. That flat is empty, isn't it?
Curious, John walked over to the cracked open door. He placed his palm on the old wood and slowly pushed the creaking door open. The sight before him left John's eyes wide, his mouth hanging, and his heart shattered.
"Sherlock!" John's voice echoed down the halls of the apartment complex. He ran to his friend's side and felt for a pulse. It was very weak, but still there. John put his hand over Sherlock's slit wrist, trying to stop the blood that was still sputtering out. He looked at the pool of blood around Sherlock. To the right of his body was the bloody knife.
"Oh, Sherlock…"
Sherlock's skin had become ghostly pale, even more than normal. Sherlock moaned and, from what strength he could muster, raised his hand as if to keep John away.
"No," Sherlock mumbled. "Don't,"
"No, you don't. Don't talk. I'm gonna get you out of here."
"No-"
"Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance!" John shouted.
"No, John," Sherlock muttered. "It's too late. I'll be gone in less than thirty seconds…"
"You're going to be okay and we're gonna-we're gonna-"
"I want this, John."
"Stop. Stop it," John choked on his own voice.
"John," Sherlock sighed quietly. He lifted his uninjured arm and brushed the back of his hand against John's cheek. "You gave me the happiest days of my life."
"Yeah, well, there's more where that came from. The ambulance will be here any minute. You're gonna be fine. We'll think of something. That's what we do isn't it?" John squeaked. "We always find a way!"
Sherlock curled his lip into a small smile as the last light of life drained from his eyes. "Not this time."
John caught Sherlock's hand in his as it began to fall limply from his cheek. He held it tightly as tears flooded from his eyes.
"Sherlock?" John whispered. "Sher-" John felt for a pulse with the hand that wasn't holding Sherlock's. Nothing. He was gone.
"Sherlock," John cried. "You bastard."
John clenched Sherlock's hand even tighter. Then he felt something. Paper? John opened Sherlock's hand and saw a little folded note, dampened in his hand's sweat. He took it into his own hand and turned it over. On the front of it read "John" in dripping ink.
John heard the paramedics running up the stairs. He quickly tucked the note into his pocket. John took in the last images of his best friend before the room was suddenly swamped with people and he was shooed out the door.
Later that night, John sat in his chair across from Sherlock's empty one. The coals in the fire had become dim, the log's light flickering down. He reached in his pocket and took out the note addressed to him that Sherlock had clung to in his final moments. Bit by bit, John unfolded the stationary and read the last words of Sherlock Holmes, the only Consulting Detective in the world.
My Dearest John,
If you're surprised at this, I don't know what to tell you. You are intelligent, compared to the rest of them all. I would have thought you would catch on by now, but it seems that is not the case. If you did catch wind of my depression, you probably were too scared to ask me. It's a shame, really, how unapproachable I must seem to others. However, I want you to know this was never anyone's fault but my own. I've pictured and longed for this day for as long l can remember.
Since childhood I have had an extreme case of depression. I hid my depression from everyone so they wouldn't ask questions. "Why are you sad?" "Why don't you want to make friends?" "Why don't you ever want to do anything?" Even when I did explain my situation, some still didn't understand how efficiently depression takes over one's mind. So I thought it easiest to label myself as a sociopath. To show them with one word that I wanted to be alone.
That was until you came along. You softened my heart, John. I owe you so much. You showed me the light in things and it kept me going for much longer than I would have, if it weren't for you. You appreciated everything about me. That was all I ever wanted.
You took the time to be patient with me on the more unfavorable characteristics of mine. I didn't have to pretend to be someone else for you to like me, unlike every other friendship I've attempted. Because you liked my music, it encouraged me to start playing again. You were the only one who took the time to listen and appreciate each reverberating chord as much as I did. John Watson, you saved me. I didn't die thinking I was alone and unloved, like I believed my entire life. You saved my life so many times and in so many ways.
But the time has come for me to leave you, as all good things must come to an end. I can't hang on anymore. I know you think I am being selfish, but I assure you I'm not trying to be. It's not because I'm not strong enough to keep on fighting. I'm doing this because I've been strong for too long. I would have been gone long ago, but meeting you kept me going so much longer than I had intended to.
Please don't shed tears for me. I'm only a man, but know I can be your angel. I'll watch over you in your days to come. Death is only the beginning. The real adventure starts now! I can't wait. I'm flying away to where I can be happy, maybe even as happy as I was spending time with you, if I'm lucky. I'll be waiting for you on the other side.
You are without a doubt the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known.
Thank you, and forgive me.
William Sherlock Scott Holmes
John stared at the paper through blurred eyes. He slammed the note down on the table and screamed at the top of his lungs. John wrecked the place, knocking over lamps and books, even overturning the tables and chairs. He would have kept at it, if not for the neighbors yelling and banging on the walls.
"Sherlock," John moaned to himself and collapsed to the floor, crying. "Of course I do."
John broke down into more tears than he had ever shed before. "Of course I forgive you."
Sorry if I shattered your souls. I had a very hard time writing this, if it makes you feel any better?
Leave a review, please c: