"Death is permanent" Sherlock whispered holding Johns pistole to his forehead Sherlock could he his own reflection in the shiny metal, a distorted monster looked back at him. The floor was covered with syringes, medication, dugs and knives. The room was incomplete disarray. The furniture was turned over and pieces of glass littered the floor like dust. The windows blinds had been shut and the door locked. The detectives own room was in a worse state. The only room that had gone untouched was the room that was empty. As if no one had ever lived there, no clothes in the closet, no pictures on the walls. Nothing. Nothing in his life had been permanent, anyway so this was just another reminder. His mother had left him, not by choice but by her husbands hand. Mycroft had left when he said he would not. Went to boarding school, got away from the hell that was home. Always Sherlock was left behind. Alone in the dark. But then John came. Then Sherlock had John.
"John who would never leave me." Sherlock whispered looking at the floor of his flat letting his hand drop. "John the loyal army doctor" Sherlock gasped " John my partner."
'But he lied, the voice inside his head whispered induced by the drugs.
"No" Sherlock cried out covering his ears with his hands and shaking his head. Still with an iron grip on the silver weapon.
"Just go away!" Sherlock screamed at nothing, he knew no one could hear. 'Just go away, just go away' the voice mocked. He was completely alone, Ms. Hudson was visiting family, and John. 'No' the voice screamed causing Sherlock to moan, throwing his head back. 'Just do it' The voice whispered much quieter. 'You are strong enough, you can do it' The voice encouraged soothingly.
Sherlock took a deep breath in, his ribs aching as his chest expand.
Sherlock raised the gun to his head. It seemed to be made of gold it was so heavy. Or perhaps it was because Sherlock had not eaten for, he could not remember how long. His body was failing but his mind was not. Sherlock could not shut his mind off 'do it' 'don't do it' 'die' 'live'i 'John 'kill' 'murder' 'pain' 'John' 'JOHN' Sherlocks hand stilled relaxation came over him. There was no life after death, that would be impossible. There was no heaven no hell and no god to judge him on his sins. What was there to fear?
With his free hand Sherlock reached for the needle before jabbing it into the crook of the arm holding the gun and pushed the plunger. His thoughts started to blur together. His eyes did the same. It hurt to look at the light. He was to weak to move. His eye lids grew heavy as if they were holding up the weight of the world. And in a way they were. The drugs made his body calm and relaxed he could not remember his body feeling so calm. So. Tired. Yet Sherlocks brain was in overload. 'At the amount of cocaine that was in that last dose, that would not kill me. Hospitalize? For sure, lethal? No.
"I need something more" Sherlock gasped as the drugs ran though the worlds only consulting detective's veins.
A single shot rang out and Johns covered his ears. For he could hear the shot from the stairs.