This old. And I'm salvaging all my fics that I posted on tumblr and putting them on here. Get your tissues. Inspired by 'Cellar Door' by Escape the Fate
Now you wait, like the drug, like the change in the pain it goes on for so long
And oh, how it hurts in the worst way, now that you re gone, it s so wrong, it's so wrong.
John moves ever so slowly, shaking hands slipping underneath the soft pillow and grabbing at the concealed weapon, his breath hitches in his throat and escapes in a small sob, as they find the cool metal of the barrel of the gun. He can barely see through the hot tears running down his cheeks, in the midst of an attack.
The third one in four days.
The cellar underneath 221B smells musty, the bed, unnervingly soft. But all John can smell, taste, see, is the sand and the dirt, all around him, closing in on him, suffocating him an-BANG.
Sherlock sits behind his microscope, the pads of his fingers moving the slide ever so slightly on the stage to unlock what ever he is looking for, but, frustrated, he pulls back. He didn t find what he was looking for, obviously. He sighs, leaning forward, fogging up the lens, and gently takes the slide from the clips and places it beside his steaming cup of tea. Probably not the best for the test, but he could always get another sample. He leans back on his chair and picks up the mug, flinching when his knuckles touched the side. It is hotter than he expects. He takes a small sip, screwing up his face at the heat, however he likes the taste of this new tea. Turkish Delight. He hears a muffled bang from somewhere in the floors below, a gunshot?
John.
John had gone down there. His starts to his feet, his stomach clenching in a momentary panic, dropping his tea to the floor in a hurry to find John, make sure he is OK.
He flew down the stairs, his bare feet thumping down on every second one, skimming his hand along the rail. "John!" he calls as he reaches the bottom, hitting the cold floor hard on both feet. "Where are you?" he is drawn, by an invisible force to the Cellar Door, he lays a shaking hand on the cold, smooth knob, silently debating on whether or not to open it. He shut his eyes and slowly turns it, hearing the click, and pushes it open. He has a bad feeling about this, a very, very, bad feeling. "John?" he peeks around the corner of the door and sees a foot, dangling off the bed, almost touching the concrete ground. John. "John!" his voice is more frantic now as he rushes through the door at full speed. Gun, blood, no response. He already knows the answer, but he can't bear it.
His heart leaps into his mouth, his hands start to shake. "Why?" he shouts angrily, suddenly and without thought. "John, what did you do?" his voice is now reduced to nothing more than a whimper, his face turning pale. No, no, no. John can t be dead. He CAN'T have killed himself, not tonight! Tears begin to cloud his vision, but he impatiently flicks them away with his thumb.
Wake up, wake up!
He knows it s not a nightmare, it doesn t stop him from trying. He drags his fingers through his hair, catching an annoying knot on the way and shoves them in his pockets.
He paces, trying to keep him emotions in check by almost choreographically taking a few steps and running his hands through his hair. He stops at the foot of the bed, casts his eyes over his body and -the first thing he can think of- he pulls out his cell, hitting speed dial 3 for Lestrade and waits for an answer.
"Hello?" his voice is crackly, not much reception in the cellar.
"John shot himself," Sherlock says, his voice breaking upon saying it out loud, it makes it seem real.
Silence on the other end of the line almost killed him, "Jesus Christ... we"ll get down there as soon as possible, OK, Sherlock. Hang in there," the line cut off abruptly.
Sherlock is sitting on the couch, tea in hand, staring straight ahead at the telly, his face void of all emotion.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft is here.
He turns his eyes up to him, swallowing hard and squeezing them shut. "Leave me alone, Mycroft. I do not wish for your words."
"Oh, that s not nice, Sherly," Mycroft is, in his own way, trying to comfort him.
"It was suicide!" he cries, accidentally tossing his tea everywhere, grabbing the attention of Donavan and Anderson.
"Calm down, Sherlock, you're making a scene," Mycroft whispers.
"I don t care!" he hollers angrily, leaping from the chair and drawing himself up to his full height, making everyone look around at him. "My best friend. My ONLY friend took his own life. He is the closest thing I ve got to a lover, because, I dontt know about you; but I love him. Mycroft, I love him. How do you think it makes me feel?" tears are quickly making their way down his pallid cheeks, spilling off his jaw and dropping to the floor. "He left me, no note, no-no nothing," his face crumples and with a heaving sob, he drops to the floor hard, spindly fingers winding through his hair. "How do I live without him?"
Omg, so OOC. Shut up. This is OLD. I MEAN. REALLY REALLY OLD. I CAN'T.
Before the Second Season aired and before Christmas.