This is the result of an English essay: write about a time when someone was forced to do something against their will. I had to change the details of course, but it's based on sherlock's thoughts before he jumped off the roof of Bart's.
51 Dozen
If I wait too long, it will be too late. I don't want to jump. If I don't jump, they will die. Six storeys is a long way.
The people on the street below are oblivious, living their normal, boring, everyday lives. I used to be like that, normal, boring. Now I'm stood on a roof, contemplating suicide.
People often talk about "staring into the face of death," I'm not starting… death has no face. Death is just a place where life isn't. If I do not jump, and end my one, puny, unimportant life, then the bomb will go off, and six hundred and twelve will simply cease to exist. Six hundred and twelve, versus one, all complete strangers, trapped in the dark somewhere, innocent bystanders.
There's a man standing on the street corner, holding a camera phone; the personal photographer of my corpse.
The rain from last night still glistens around the edges of the gutter, so that it's sparkly. There is a large lorry parked on the street, with canvas sides flapping in the wind. It's not quite in line with the kerb, and the frame is dented from a crash: an old lorry. The canvas sides are baggy, the frame is too small, and the sides do not properly tie down. Each buckle is a different make, this thing has had many owners. Some people believe that that's what we're like, our life force, it's now mine. In a few minutes, it will belong to someone else, a bright, sparkling, bouncing baby, or maybe a tiny terror, screeching and kicking. I don't care, I'll be dead.
Now there's a woman struggling along the road, in a shocking pink coat, and carrying far too much shopping; followed closely by a clingy six-year-old. I can't hear her voice from up here, but I can imagine all the rainbow language she would sprout, nothing new to the child.
An old lady in the bus stop with grey hair and a tired face looks up at me. I try to smile, but she can't see, she just stares. I can see every crumple in her faded green coat, the hairs of the fur-lined hood. I often wish I could go back to being normal, but that would be boring.
I'd give anything to be bored right now.
The wind on my back is pushing me forward, towards the lip that lines the edge of the building. I put one foot up… and hesitate, the grinning smile in my peripheral vision becomes a look of admonishment, mocking. I don't care. He can't kill me. I have to kill myself. That's the game. It's not chance but chess, and this is check, and my move. It's checkmate. He's no 'mate' of mine, but you can't make someone commit suicide at gunpoint. I step back, grin at him. He looks confused. I take another step back, and another. Then I step forward, in great, running strides. I launch myself from the concrete, and fly through the air. Suddenly everything is sharpened.
The wind hits my face like a punch, from an enemy, and then brushes my hair back, like a caress, almost tickling. My scarf is warm protection from the wind down my chest, but it strangles my neck like a cobra. My coat is a cape, majestic and powerful, until it becomes tangled in my kicking legs, and becomes the clingy child of before. The street corner is empty. The man is gone. I waited too long. It's too late.
Death toll: Six hundred and thirteen.