Wrote this one a little bit ago, thought you might like to read it. Warnings for suicide and language.
It's terrible when someone decides to end their own life. It's a terrible waste.
Those who are left behind flounder around in too much brightness and too much oxygen and too much other people's happiness and wonder what they did to make it happen, or what they could have done to stop it.
It just fucking hurts.
John was tired of living through suicides. First Sherlock and now Harry, and the first one turns out not to have been real. But it wasn't any less real while it was happening.
In some ways, he almost understood Sherlock's, at least now that he could look back on it. He did not understand Harry's. Not at all, there would be no coming back from this one.
Now that Sherlock was back, he thought that his life get could back to somewhat normal. But that just wasn't going to happen. It was almost as if Harry waited until the perfect moment…her little brother was now cared for and no longer alone. She was, though. John felt a tearing at his heart. The pain was intense, though he guiltily admitted nothing like it was when he thought he had lost his best friend. There were so many things…he should have attempted to spend more time with his sister…he thought she was getting better, she had a full-time job in an office, she was moving on…or so he thought. Or maybe wanted to believe.
It still hurt, though. Hurt like hell. It was really very sad that he was the only one left to mourn his sister. Clara had been there, with her new girlfriend. John could not take it out on Clara, though, he knew Harry had been difficult to live with. Oh boy how he knew.
The funeral had been, well, a funeral. They didn't really change much, in John's experience. The only thing different about this one had been the slightly stiff new suit that Sherlock had insisted John needed. Naturally, all John could do was steal glances at his husband as Sherlock stood by his side, holding his hand. Funny that.
He never dreamed that Sherlock could say so much in a single movement. It was tentative at first, but now the detective held the doctor's hand in his own like a lifeline.
So of course it had rained. They laid Harry to rest and the pathetic little party had made their way back to Baker Street: Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and John. Clara and her girlfriend left right after it was over; John had not expected them to stay. He understood and held nothing against either of them.
Sherlock and John were ushered to Mrs Hudson's dining table. She patted their hands and set about making the ubiquitous tea. She laid out a plate of biscuits, but John just sat quietly, saying nothing. Sherlock's hand reached for his and John flipped his hand palm up. The detective covered the doctor's hand with his own. He hurt for John, but he knew there was nothing he could say.
That slight movement began to thaw the ice that seemed to have seeped into John's chest last week when the doctor on-call at the A+E had phoned. They had been curled together in Sherlock's bed, sleeping the sleep of the just and in love. Sherlock answered the call and then sat straight up in the bed. He quietly handed John the phone, nothing in his face giving away the message.
John remembers answering the telephone. He barely remembers speaking with Dr Patchel. But he remembers vividly the words "Harriet Watson OD'd on pills and alcohol. I am sorry. There was no one else to call." "…no one else to call." That was probably the saddest thing in the whole world. His mind barely registered the red numbers of the clock on the nightstand. 12:15. He will never forget it.
The next thing he remembers is being held in strong, sinewy arms and sobbing into a soft pajama shirt. Sherlock held him close for over an hour, the younger man's chin carefully balanced on the weeping man's head, softly running his long fingers through John's hair. For a strange second, the doctor remembers clearly that he thought "If they could only see him now…"
Once he was calm, he showered and somehow managed to get dressed. He cannot say for certain what he felt was shock, though it was something akin to that feeling. He grabbed his wallet and was stuffing it into his back pocket before he realized that Sherlock was there, his hand on John's elbow, not leading nor pulling, just letting the doctor know that he was there.
The taxi ride was unremarkable. The horrid green fluorescent lights in the hospital were unremarkable. The cold steel of the work tables in the morgue were unremarkable. Molly, coming from nowhere, was remarkable. She reached out and enveloped John in a hug while Sherlock stood behind them with his hand on John's shoulder, always possessive, but knowing when to step back.
John pulled back from Molly's embrace and thanked her while wiping his eyes with his hands. He looked down upon his sister's face and was struck with how calm she looked; peaceful even.
John signed the required document, as he was the only one left who could do so. The tears struck again when they were in another taxi headed home. Then they were home and John was on the sofa, curled up in Sherlock's arms, again. Sobbing like a child. So many thoughts ran through his head, an endless loop of "why."
John managed to hold it all together until he was facing the single box of childhood mementos that he had scavenged from Harry's bedsit. He had no idea she was living in such a tiny place. The flat she had rented just after Sherlock's…disappearance had been a decent-sized one bedroom. It had been decorated and at least homey. John wondered what happened.
Another document to sign: this one allowed some moving company (probably hired by Mycroft, he was sure of it) to come in and take the personal items John had no use for. Harry's clothing and the majority of her personal effects would be given to charity. If he was honest with himself, he did not care where the furniture went. He did not want any of it; it did not mean anything to him.
It was a week before John could touch the box. It sat on the dining table, mocking him daily. Sherlock didn't even touch it: just set up his chemistry experiment on the other edge of the table and left it there. It would have been humorous in any other situation. Sherlock never had any problems with any of John's personal stuff before!
John slowly pried the box top loose. Among the detritus of thirty years were a ragged little girl doll in a red and white striped shirt, some photographs and an empty wine bottle. John snorted and almost tossed the bottle across the room just to hear it smash when he realized there was a piece of paper inside it. He stood staring for a moment and it seemed that the world stopped with him. He felt heat on his face but did not acknowledge the tears until Sherlock was behind him, stepping in close and wrapping those long, strong arms around his waist.
John sniffed and held the bottle up. Sherlock's hand reached out and gently took it from the doctor. He upended it into his hand and shook it slightly. The paper slipped out and he held it out to the older man.
With calmness he could not believe he felt, John held open the curled up paper.
If you are reading this, it means that I could no longer hang on. I love you and I am sorry it had to end this way. You have been through so much the last few years and I regret putting you through even more pain.
John, I was diagnosed with inoperable cancer a few weeks ago. It is aggressive and has rapidly spread from my liver into my colon and kidneys. I'm so sorry I could not tell you. I'm sure that you would have tried to help me, but I just could not handle that. You were so happy when Sherlock came home…there would never be anything I would do to take that away from you.
I want you to know that I am sober now. I am completely in control of my own mind and body as I decide to end this…the pain and the horror of having my own body eaten up from the inside out. This is the reason I could not make it to your wedding, I would rather not spoil the day. You deserve to be happy, Johnny boy, and I wish I could have given you a wedding gift. No one knows, please don't think that you are the only one I kept this awful secret from. For the first time in my life, I needed to face my own problems on my own.
I want to thank you for always confiding in me, allowing me a glimpse into the world of living with a mad genius and always being there for me, even when I was not in control of myself.
I love you
Harry
It was almost too much, but somehow the tears falling from John's eyes were cleansing. Harry didn't off herself simply out of spite or anger or just a drunk jag. It did not really make him feel any better, but at least it answered his questions. He wondered if Clara or anyone else close to Harry at any point in her life ever received an explanation. He considered that he should call his sister's ex-wife and perhaps tell her. John turned away from the table and was stopped gently by a hand on his chest.
Sherlock bent his head down and stared directly into John's eyes. "No John. If Harry did not tell anyone else, it is not for you to decide. Not now. Not while the pain is so fresh."
John considered the detective's words for a moment. He slowly nodded his head and reached up to pull Sherlock's mouth downward with both hands on the taller man's skinny shoulders. He hoped that Sherlock understood that there was nothing else to say. They stood that way for a time, motionless, with their foreheads pressed together, just giving and getting comfort. John intertwined his fingers into Sherlock's and together they turned toward the living room as if walking through time together.
Notes: Hold my Hand (C) Hootie & The Blowfish
"Hold my hand
Want you to hold my hand
Hold my hand
Ill take you to the promised land
Hold my hand
Maybe we can't change the world but
I wanna love you the best that, the best that I can, yeah"