John closed his eyes in a futile attempt to settle his nerves. How hard could this be? He'd decided; he'd acted. He HAD decided, hadn't he? He was so certain this was what he needed to do. He shook his head, to clear his scrambled thoughts, and took a deep breath...
"JOHN!"
Wait! What?
Was that...?
The voice sounded distant; outside? Or in his head. John had no idea which.
He banged his fist on the desk. "Damn this! Damn my messed-up head", he chastised himself.
He composed himself once more, and started a countdown.
"Five", he starts, confidently; with conviction. Quick mental check-list. Gun loaded; safety off...
"Four", he smiles; closes his eyes; pictures Sherlock; his Sherlock. "Soon", he thinks; knows, "Soon..."
"Three", John raises the pistol to his head. For a moment, he comes back to himself. He falters as a thousand thoughts flood his mind. He glances around as he tries to make sense of them. He's in his flat. he's at his desk. Maybe he should have done this on the bed? In the bathroom? Who will find him? Who will clear up his mess; his blood... He growls at himself, impatiently, and continues. He needs to do this.
"Two", deep breath. Focus. Yes, this is what he needs to do.
"One"... John swears his heart feels as though it is going to break through his chest. Adrenaline coursing through every vein, every fibre of his being, and he's back there. He can feel everything; the thrill of the chase; the laughter; the noise; the drama. It's making his head swim, and suddenly the noise and the drama are closer; deafening him; all around him; not just in his head but in his room, and the only thing he can see is Sherlock.
He can see Sherlock; he can hear Sherlock; hell, he could almost reach out and touch Sherlock.
John closes his eyes and prepares to let go of his pain.
Sherlock.
Yes.
This was what he needed to do...