Sherlock was dead. Arrogant, self-centered, selfish, unfeeling, brilliant, amazing Sherlock. He had stood at the top of that stupid hospital, and called me one last time before he jumped. He told me he was a fake, he told me to tell everybody that he was fake, and Moriarty was an actor, and he never was the genius we all thought he was. And everybody believed him. Everybody thinks that those last sentences were the only true things he ever said. Everybody but me.
I refused to think of my best friend as anything but the man I knew. The man that could look at you and tell you you're life story, the man that could solve any mystery, the man that cracked into the largest criminal network in the world, the man that struggled with addiction, the man that knew me like no one else, the man that I fixed and who fixed me, the man I had been secretly falling in love with.
Even now, I couldn't accept that I had been feeling something towards Sherlock more than friendship. I guess it's because now there was no hope of us ever becoming something more than what we were. At least if he was still around, the most he could've done was kick me out. At least I would still know that he was alive and as close to happy as a man like Sherlock could ever be. But now all I knew about him was that he was six feet under, in disgrace.
It stung to know that. No, it did more than sting. It ripped my heart to pieces and stomped on the bits. Everybody has to die, I know that more than most, but not everybody has to die in shame. Sherlock deserved honor at his death more than most, for all the lives he saved, though most don't believe he actually saved them. I know he did though. I lived with the man, there was no way he could've faked being the genius he was that constantly.
Sherlock's death sent me into a spiraling depression. I didn't understand why at first. I had seen far too many good men die throughout my military career, and though I had mourned them, none had affected me like Sherlock did. That was when I realized my love for the man was even stronger than I thought. I was a strong man, I had to be to be a soldier, but Sherlock had changed me. He had built me back up and now he had broken me right back down.
Without Sherlock, life was tedious. There was nothing breaking the dull day to day routine of 'normal' people. There were no heads in the fridge, or bombs exploding across the street, or visits to dominatrices. There was no more trying to solve puzzles, or almost being arrested, or shooting at smiley faces painted on the walls. It almost made me wish I had never met the man. At least then I wouldn't know what I was missing, at least then I wouldn't feel like everything was completely and utterly boring, at least then I wouldn't be going through withdrawals from the lack of excitement.
After Sherlock's jump, I went comatose. I visited his grave once, had an appointment with my therapist, and then refused to leave our- my –flat for anything. It was only thanks to Mrs. Hudson that I ever moved from my chair to eat or wash. I couldn't stop staring at the armchair that was just his. The armchair where he had sat for hours playing violin, the armchair where he went to his mind palace, the armchair where he sat yelling at talk show hosts on TV. I hadn't touched it since that fateful day, nor had I been in his room. I couldn't bear to erase him from the flat. It was the one piece of him I had left.
I tried to be strong. I tried to keep on going without him. I knew he would never intend for me to follow in his footsteps. I knew he would want me to continue, to do what I wanted to do with my life, because as much as he tried not to show it he cared. And that's what hurt the most. He cared. And now I would never be able to ask just how much. There was only one way to see him again, and I wanted it to happen. I wanted to die.
I had the tools to do it. I still had my pistol from the war, and I knew where Sherlock had put his drugs, if I wanted to go out that way. I decided on the drugs, it would connect me more to the man I so wanted to see again. I got everything together; I knew being a doctor just how much of the heroin it would take to kill me. The only thing left was to write a note explaining. I knew this would be the hardest part. I decided to keep it simple.
Dear whoever finds me,
I know you probably don't understand why I did this. In a way, I don't understand it either. I just can't take a world so dull anymore. A world without him. I don't have to say his name; you know who I am talking about.
I know none of you believe he was real. The evidence certainly supports your opinion, I'll admit to that. But I know, don't ask me how, he is not a fake. He was my best friend, and I will never believe he was anything other than the person I knew. He one time told me that there are no such things as heroes. I disagree with that. He was a hero to me, and nothing any of you could've ever said would change that.
Goodbye,
John.
By the time I had finished writing those two short paragraphs, the paper I was writing them on was splattered with tears. The letters were shaky thanks to my trembling, nervous hands. I place the note upon the side table next to Sherlock's chair, and sat down in said chair. I had the supplies already lined up on the little table, so I grabbed the first needle.
I shot the drug into my veins, and then quickly grabbed the next. And the next. And the next. I only stopped once I had five doses in me. Then I just leaned back, and waited for the end to come. But something interrupted me, someone coming into the building. I heard the door at the foot of the stairs creak open, and prayed it was someone coming to see Mrs. Hudson. Those hopes were dashed when I heard footfalls on the stairs leading up to the flat. "I'm busy," I croaked out, becoming woozy with the drugs.
"Not too busy, I hope," responded a voice I had only heard in my dreams, causing my eyes to fly open, and me to stumble drunkenly out of the chair. I collapsed on the floor, and could hear the door handle turn, and then saw familiar shoes enter my field of vision.
"John?" I heard the voice ask, this time quiet and concerned.
"Sherlock," I slurred out, "Gonna see you soon." I giggled a little then, though I wasn't sure why.
The shoes left and went over in the direction of the armchair, where I had left the needles. "John," said Sherlock's voice, "Are these mine? How many did you take?"
"Five," I responded, then repeated, "Gonna see you soon."
"Oh my God, John" I heard Sherlock whisper, "What have you done?" Then I heard the sound of dialing, and then the words, "Yes, I have someone who just took a severe overdose of heroin…suicide attempt…yes, he is still alive, but barley. Please hurry."
"Sherlock," I whispered, no longer having the strength to speak normally.
Sherlock came over to me, bending over so his face was right above mine. "Yes, John, I'm here."
"Alive?" I said, trying to reach up to touch him and affirm he was real and not a drug induced hallucination, but my hand fell limp.
"Yes, John," he whispered, his face holding more emotion than I had ever seen on him, "I'm so sorry. So very, very sorry. I never meant for this to happen…"
"Not your fault," I muttered, my eyes starting to droop.
"No John!" Sherlock yelled, "Don't you close your eyes! You stay with me! I'm sorry for leaving; I only did it to save you. Don't you die on me now!"
I struggled to stay conscious, but could tell I would lose. "Need to sleep," I whispered, closing my eyes. I let the blackness enfold me, full of regrets for sleeping, and hopes I would wake up again.