Sherlock gritted his teeth as tears rolled down his face. The moonlight cast dreary shadows from his open window where he sat in his bed, whimpering.
"Make it stop…"
He looked at the ceiling and cried out, "When will it end? I just need it to end!" This brought on another episode of fought-back tears, but he knew the effort would be fruitless. The only thing he tried not to do was wake his flatmate, John.
John was absolutely brilliant. He was only reason Sherlock lived through each torturous day. After being diagnosed with severe clinical depression at eighteen, he soon felt the world crumbling down on him. Each day it felt as if he was suffocating. Ten years ago, he had tried to kill himself by putting rocks in his pockets, blindfolding himself and falling backwards into a lake. His brother, Mycroft, had been there and saved him. Ironic. The one time he didn't want to be saved was the one day Mycroft actually cared about him.
Sherlock scoffed. What a joke he was. What a complete failure. He was never cared about by Mycroft, his once adored older brother. They used to play a game all the time together. What was it? Deductions, that's right. He never won.
A grimace crept across his narrow face. "Why don't you just die already?" he hissed. Because John would miss you terribly. He could never do that to his best friend.
John. He was so amazing. The little man meant everything to Sherlock. He had no idea of the stress, sleepless nights or the self-hatred and suicidal thoughts. Sherlock hid everything from John. He doesn't need to worry. So he buried himself in cases and thoughts day in and day out. He only remembered things that mattered and simply "deleted" other irrelevant thoughts, such as what John thought about all the time.
He found that thinking about him helped him calm down. Slowly his fists unclenched as he leaned back against the bed frame.
John. Why did that simple name send shivers of admiration down his spine every time? John was a very simple man, as his name implies. That's partly why Sherlock adored him. He's such a simple person. Sherlock found himself admiring him more and more every day. Doctor John Watson. The simple man who had saved this complex human being more times than he realized.
Sherlock touched his face and found himself smiling.
Smiling.
Moments ago he had been seething with rage. Sherlock breathed out a thoughtful sigh, got up and pattered to his open window where he sat, legs dangling out in the bitter London breeze. He leaned against the frame and fell asleep, a faint smile on his face as he thought about his only friend, the one he loved more than anyone.
