Leap. Take the plunge, embrace the cold, the
Oblivion, where there's nothing there, not the mistakes you've made
Nor your successes. Nothing haunting you there, on the bottom of the Thames.
Conglomeration of past and recent failures gave no room for rational thought
A night previous, Sherlock had made the final mistake. It seemed like the appropriate hour.
Nonchalant, as was his wont, he'd asked John if he'd like to have sex, Sherlock's eyes following,
Dreadful, as John's face fell slack and he begun to mumble excuses to rush out.
Well. No then. No. It didn't occur to the great mind that it was possibly impropriate.
In his loins he'd felt the burn, and calculated by the recent occurrences, there was nothing,
Nothing proving him otherwise. Now. John's horrified face inked in the back of Sherlock's mind.
Do it, the voice relentless. You've faced enough, now it's time to let go. Your last dream in shambles.
In a single step, Sherlock climbed on the brink, hovering, testing the winds, his mind occupied with the
Number of drowned victims, some of them murders, some of them not. He would be not.
Gritting his teeth, preparing, the last filaments keeping Sherlock Holmes in this world, snapped.
Roaring water in his ears, the helpless, autonomous nervous system forcing him to hold his breath,
Ominous pressure in his lungs, while he struggled to take the first gasp of the deadly drink.
A moment flashed before his eyes, turning into twirling colours followed by gray, an a grave voice;
"Did you really think you'd get rid of me this easily?"