After Sherlock came back from his four-minute exile, after his very nearly drug overdose, it would have been foolish of him to believe that John would return. Not even in his drug-induced fantasy did John return to him, so of course it would have been foolish of him.
But despite Sherlock's vast intelligence, he was at heart, a foolish man.
He desperately wished that John would stay, would leave Mary and give Sherlock what his heart desperately wanted. But that was a fool's wish.
After being whisked away by the sleek black car that Mycroft always seemed to have a his disposal every hour of the day, Sherlock was deposited back at baker Street and promptly put under house arrest, and John and Mary returned to their normal, boring, suburban flat in their normal, boring, suburban neighbourhood and their normal, boring, suburban lives.
John had left him. Sherlock was alone, again.
He moved slowly through 221B, feeling oddly disconnected, going through the motions until he ended up in his chair. Sherlock pulled his legs up towards his body, wrapping his arms around them like a child and resting his forehead on his knees. He refused to cry. He had cried enough over John Watson and his broken heart.
The rest of the evening was spent in a numb blur. Mycroft may have stopped by at some point, but Sherlock could neither remember nor care. He knew that once the Moriarty issue had been dealt with, the likelihood was that he would be sent back on his suicide mission. He had killed a man in cold blood, he was a murderer, and no amount of fiddling at the hands of Mycroft would ever change that. When the light outside began to dim, and the shuffling from Mrs Hudson's flat had settled, Sherlock took himself to his bedroom. He didn't remember getting undressed, but he somehow ended up in his pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown, lying on his back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Alone.
He didn't sleep at all that night, still in a numb state of disconnection.
John had left him. He was alone.
It was usually at this time of the day that John used to bring him tea and toast, hoping that he would actually eat something. Recovering from his bullet wound was a slow process, but at least John was there to help him through it. Now John had gone back to his wife, and he wasn't here to bring Sherlock his tea anymore. He missed John; he could physically feel his absence like an ache in his chest.
'I'll be alright,' he whispered to himself, desperately wanting to believe in his own words. But the lie was just too big. He didn't feel 'alright' at all, and he felt like he never would.
John had left him. John was happy with Mary, a type of happiness and passion that Sherlock would never experience from John, or that Sherlock would never himself feel. Sherlock could feel his insides tearing at him, he felt open, raw, exposed - and yet still numb.
Sherlock rose from the bed and moved straight to his chair, settling himself there and staring into space. If anyone asked, Sherlock would have claimed to be in his mind palace, but no one was around to ask, so it didn't really matter. Sherlock was so disconnected from the world, from his own life that he failed to notice his phone light up multiple times, bearing the names John, Mycroft and Mary in turn.
Inside of 221B Baker Street, the world seemed to have stopped. Silence engulfed the flat, the only noise being the slow breathing of the consulting detective. The silence was driving Sherlock mad, only highlighting just how alone he actually was, and his heart ached.
In his catatonia, Sherlock imagined a world where John wouldn't turn away from him, where he would come back and not leave, he would stay and Sherlock would be loved. But his fantasy turned dark as John turned bitter, resentful of Sherlock keeping him from his wife and child, hurling abuse at him, telling him that he should have stayed dead, turning everything to black. Sherlock knew that none of it was real, it was his mind rebelling against himself, reminding him that he didn't deserve happiness, that John would never love him the way Sherlock loved John.
Despite the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be investigating the Moriarty situation, the next few days continued in this way, Sherlock would move to his bed at night, but never sleep, and his chair during the day, imagining all the different ways his life could have happened with John, always with John. Some of these fantasies even made him laugh, or as close to laughter as he could produce in his numb state. But then he would remember that John was not here, and any trace of happiness would be wiped away, replaced by the crushing sense of loneliness and desolation that he could not banish.
He could not live like this; he refused to spend another day in this agony. He roused himself from his catatonia and began to think. It did not take long for him to come to a decision, and then he began to search. Under the terms of his house arrest, Mycroft had had the flat searched for any remaining drugs that Sherlock had in his possession, however, Sherlock had a few hiding places that not even Mycroft would have thought of.
He pulled out everything, and then made a list. But Sherlock could not, in good conscious, simply leave a list without any further explanation. So he pulled out a pen and two sheets of paper, two envelopes and began to write the letter that he knew he would never send, but he hoped would be read anyway.
The first envelope he address to Mycroft.
Mycroft,
The list is enclosed. I'm sorry. Do not blame yourself, the only person at fault is myself and nothing you would have said could have made a difference. Thank you for looking out for me. I've never said it, but I really appreciated having you as a brother. Please ensure that John receives the envelope addressed to him.
SH
The second envelope, he addressed to John. He felt that John deserved a direct explanation, despite everything.
John,
I've never been very good at emotions - that was always your department. But I feel the need to express my feelings whilst I still can. Everything I have done over these past five years has been for you, John. I died for you, I killed for you and I lived for you. I have been in love with you for a very long time John Watson, and I have tried to be selfless for you. I planned your wedding to Mary, I convinced to forgive Mary because I want you to be happy above all else. I have tried to be selfless so please forgive me this act of selfishness.
I never intended to cause you pain through my actions, and I hope you accept my most sincere apologies for that. But I can't keep living through this pain anymore, John. Everything always hurts and it's so illogical that it makes me want to rip my hair out. I can't live in a world where I feel heartbreak this acutely.
I'm sorry to do this to you again, but now I know you've got Mary, I know that you will be looked after. Give my love to her, and to your daughter. I hope she grows to be like you, because the world needs more people like John Watson.
Always yours,
SH
Sherlock's heart cramped as he thought about what he was about to do, what he was about to put John through again. But he had made his decision, and he knew that he was leaving John behind in very capable hand in Mary's hands, and with a daughter on the way, he would have something other than his grief to focus on. If he even grieved.
Sherlock placed both sealed envelopes on the coffee table, and then turned his attentions to his secret hoard. He prepared his arm, found a vein, took a deep breath and inserted the needle.
The first thing Sherlock felt was sheer bliss, such a stark contrast to what he had been feeling over these past few days, this was it, the beauty of the end. But then came the overwhelming oblivion, and pain, such pain. He could feel his muscles spasm; he could feel his consciousness slipping away from him.
He could also hear the footprints on the stairs, the scrape of the lock on the door, the shocked, broken sounding voice that Sherlock would know anywhere. The voice of his best friend, the best friend that he ever had, the voice of John Watson.
"Sherlock?"
Moriarty was right. Falling never hurts, but landing does.
"So I write this letter
That I'll never send
Just so I remember
The beauty of the end
And I write this letter
To my long lost friend
So it stays with me forever,
The beauty of the end.
Falling never hurts but landing does."
The Beauty of the End - Paloma Faith
I'm sorry for the time gap between my last work and this one. I've been going through some stuff, and I lost all enthusiasm and motivation to sit down and write. So I apologise that this vic might not be up to my usual standard, but I'm just easing myself back into it!
As always, that you so much for reading my work, I always really appreciate people taking an interest. I'm rather undecided about whether this fic would benefit from another chapter, and if it does I'm not sure how I would end it. So if you have any ideas or suggestions, let me know! Who knows, I may end up using your idea (and crediting it to you, of course).
The link to the song I used to inspire this fic is here: watch?v=2-jNcmejSM4
I thoroughly recommend listening to any Paloma Faith songs because she's absolutely fabulous!
Thank you again guys for sticking with me!
Scarlett xx