A/N Edit: I fixed some of the spelling errors and spacing. I really hope you guys like this!
Warnings: Self harm, language, and death.
Crashing Down
John remembers the day his world came crashing down.
He was at the store standing in front an assortment of bread. Sherlock barely ate anymore and when he did it was just toast. He never really ate before, but the bad habit had become worse recently. So picking a bread he would like was important. John stood there for about five minutes lost in his wandering thoughts. His phone vibrating shook him from his head. He grabbed a loaf of bread and pulled the phone from his pocket.
Sherlock's name was bright on the front of it.
Typical. John could never get the shopping done peacefully.
John almost didn't answer. What if he hadn't? Would it have been better or worse? To this day, John is not capable of answering that question. It hurts all the same.
John sighed and answered the call with a quick, "Yes, Sherlock?"
"John?"
It sounded like a question. As if Sherlock had expected someone else to answer. Which didn't make sense. Sherlock had been the one who called.
Sherlock sounded out of breath which was odd. What had he been doing? John was sure he hadn't left the flat, because he refused the last few days.
"Yes.." John replied, confused. "What is it, Sherlock? If you started a fire in the kitchen again, I swear, I'll-"
"John," Sherlock repeated, catching John's wavering attention. "I wasn't going to make this phone call. Sentiment and such. But you're different-"
"What are you going on about, Sherlock," John questioned.
He did not receive an answer.
Sherlock continued on. "This is hard, John. Very hard..I will keep it short."
"Ok." What the hell was Sherlock on about? A pit of worry started to grow in John's stomach and he swallowed hard in attempt to push it down as far as he could. There was no reason to worry. Sherlock was just being...His mysterious self. John picked of a glass jar of jam, staring at it, but not really focusing on it.
Sherlock took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "I-..um.."
Wait, was Sherlock stuttering? Stumbling over his words was not like him, John thought.
Sherlock again pulled John from his thoughts. "I just wanted to say..Erm...Thank you for everything. We have had the best-"
John held his hand up to stop him, but no one could see him. And if they could, they would see the concern etched in his face. So, he said, "Stop. What is this, Sherlock?"
"I'm not trying to worry you. This is nothing to concern yourself with," Sherlock simply replied.
"'Nothing to'..." John repeated, almost yelling. "Really? Because this doesn't sound like nothing."
John was ignored once again as Sherlock started speaking once more. "We have had the best of times, John. And I..um..am grateful for all that you have done."
The glass jar slipped from John's hand. It hit the floor with a crash, and splashed onto John's shoe. When had his hands started sweating?
"And I am sorry that I have to do this, John."
And that's when John started running. Not just because of Sherlock's words, but because he sounded so weak. Sherlock. Weak. That didn't match up.
The broken jar was forgotten. The only thing on John's mind was Sherlock. Getting to him. Even if this was a trick, John would be relieved. Sure, he would kill Sherlock later for pulling such a horrible stunt, but first he would hug him. Because Sherlock's words were so genuine. And it terrified John.
John had known for a while. Sherlock was...different. He had stopped taking joy in things long ago. Along with not eating, he also never slept anymore.
When there are cases Sherlock is fine. When there are no cases his mind starts to scratch itself raw. Sometimes John's friendship was enough. Sometimes it wasn't.
Sure they had done a couple of cases recently, but nothing that satisfied Sherlock's brilliant mind.
The in-between moments were the worst. Sherlock would sit silent for days on end. He would barely speak to John during those times.
If John was right about what Sherlock was doing...No, he couldn't think about it. He focused on running. Pounding his feet into the ground. He was out of the store by this point and about four blocks away from the flat. Their home.
Sherlock had hung up already and John opened his phonebook and found the contact he was looking for. The one he needed.
"Hello?" Lestrade answered, sounding tired.
John took a deep breath. "Lestrade, it's John. Don't ask questions. I will explain later. I need an ambulance at Baker Street, now!"
John heard him say a few words, but he wasn't really listening.
"Alright!" Lestrade answered, but John had already placed the phone in pocket, without hanging up.
And he kept running.
The question 'What if I had run faster?', still lurks in John's mind and it hurts every time.
John burst into the flat. He would have given anything to see Sherlock sitting in his chair laughing and telling him that the phone call was only to calculate John's response time. That was not the sight that greeted him.
An array of empty pill bottles was strewn across the coffee table. There was blood everywhere. As if in slow motion, John followed the trail of blood and his eyes landed on the slump that was his flatmate.
"Jesus, Sherlock!"
Sherlock was on the floor between his and John's chairs. His white shirt was streaked with blood. Long straight cuts graced both of his arms, from his elbow to his wrist.
John only took a second to stare in shock before he leapt into action.
He ran to the kitchen, grabbed the closest two towels, and went back to the sitting room.
Once there, he dropped to his knees, trying to push all emotions away. That would only distract him.
He wrapped both towels around Sherlock's wrist and put a hand to the mans neck, checking his pulse. It was there. incredibly slow, but it was there.
John pulled Sherlock into his lap. The lack protest from Sherlock hurt him more than it should have.
"Sherlock, open your eyes," John begged tapping his cheek.
Sherlock groaned and his eyes fluttered, but did not open. John heard him muttered something under his breath and he leaned in close to hear.
"Talk to me, Sherlock," John urged.
"I'm sorry, John."
It was the quietest John had ever heard him speak. His heart started to break, but he regained his composure. He could still fix this.
"Stay awake, Sherlock," John cried. "The ambulance will be here soon and we will fix this."
Together.
Sherlock took another harsh breath and shifted closer to John.
He's dying. No, stop it. John pushed the thought as far back in his mind as it would go. He could not panic. It would do him no good. But it didn't matter.
Because Sherlock stopped breathing two minutes before the ambulance got there.
Everything turned into a blur. John, more roughly than he intended, shoved Sherlock to the floor and began CPR.
Once, twice, three times.
Nothing.
Sherlock did not take a huge assuring breath and wake up. No, he stayed still on the ground, ripping John's heart straight out of him.
John pounded on Sherlock's chest over and over until he was eventually just throwing his fist down onto it. John pushed shaking finger against Sherlock's neck. This couldn't be real.
Sherlock's heart had stopped beating.
John couldn't remember the words that fell from his mouth in that moment. Everything felt unreal.
The towels lay open around Sherlock's wrist showing the bloody cuts in all there damned glory. Blood was everywhere.
Sherlock's blood.
John screamed at the paramedics when they tried to pull a lifeless Sherlock from his arms. They couldn't have him. And John...he just needed more time.
All sound was blocked out and John could hear only his sobs and repeated mantra of his friend's name.
"Sir, he's gone-"
Gone.
That broke John out of his trance.
Gone.
Dead.
Sherlock.
John was a doctor. He was supposed to be used to things like this. He was in the army for god sakes. But this was Sherlock. So when the paramedic tried once more to take his lifeline from his arms, he pulled back his arm and went to punch him square in the face.
"John!" Another voice. A familiar one. Lestrade.
John thought how about he would always give Sherlock hell for not knowing Lestrade's name. Now he didn't give a damn. Sherlock could call him anything he wanted too. As long as he was alive to do so.
Thankfully the paramedic stepped out of the way before the punch connected.
Through blurry eyes John saw Lestrade put his hand on the guys shoulder.
"Leave him be."
The words sounded like no more than a whisper to John as his gaze fell back on Sherlock.
Sherlock's eyes were closed. John would give anything to see them open again. Deducing him. Judging him.
John couldn't let go. Because if he did, it would be the last time. Last time he was able to see and feel his best friend.
But he did.
The amount of time John sat on the floor of their flat with a dead Sherlock in his arms...John couldn't remember. It still wasn't long enough. No peace was found during that time. If anything the numbness had faded away and the pain was seeping through the cracks.
The paramedics pulled Sherlock's lifeless body onto a stretcher.
At the sight of a body bag lying around the bed of the stretcher, John howled in agony. A sound he would very much never like to make again.
He sensed Lestrade standing next to him and felt a hand on his back.
How was this happening. How was time passing by as if nothing had happened, when John's world had just come crashing down.
John stayed on the floor. To anyone watching it would have looked like he was staring at his hands. But his vision had black dots dancing around in it, making it difficult to see pretty much anything at this point.
John felt Lestrade squat down next to him. He moved his head in the direction of the man, but couldn't gain the courage to look him on the eye. Doing that would confirm that this night was really happening and was not just a terrible nightmare.
John could feel the wet against his cheeks. Hadn't his tears run out yet?
Without realizing what he was doing, John reached over and placed his hands on Lestrade's shoulders. He gripped him tight. Too tight.
"John," Lestrade said, breathlessly.
The grip was becoming painful. Lestrade continued to try to talk to John, but he didn't hear him.
John's heartbeat was pounding in his ears.
Lestrade came down on his knees and wrapped his arms around John.
John buried his face into the detective inspectors shoulder and began sobbing.
They had never had any sort of physical contact, really. But John was lost and Lestrade was the only anchor in front of him left to grab.
It didn't ease the pain. But at least he had something to hold on to.
John punched Mycroft in the face at the morgue. The man told him Sherlock had ripped out all the cameras in their flat before he decided to commit suicide and Mycroft hadn't noticed in time.
John didn't give a damn. The punch felt good. And right now, he needed someone to blame for this.
Mrs. Hudson broke down. John held her as she cried. He wanted to do the same, but his tears had run out. So he held her and stared at the door to her flat.
John remembers the day his world came crashing down vividly. It's seared into his mind like a bad burn that wont heal.
A/N Please review! Also if you would like, I might add a second chapter to this.