Trigger Warning!
I feel I'm obliged to warn for suicide triggers here and mention that this chapter contains a suicide attempt and may be upsetting in nature to anyone with said trigger. I have taken out the specific drug ingested for this reason as well.
Many thanks to those of you that take time to read, special hugs and Sherlock kisses for those that review. This chapter is pretty grim, and one of the reasons for the M rating for this fic. If you have any aversions or triggers for suicide, please skip this chapter.
These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.
Off we go...
Chapter 8
Present day
John entered 221B, depositing the contents of his pockets into the dish sitting by the door as he'd done since moving into the flat. This time, in addition to his keys and loose change there was the bottle of pills he picked up from the chemist on his way home. He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket, and without checking the display, turned it off. There was no one left he wanted to talk to. He and his sister Harry stopped talking to each other a little over three years ago when she showed up drunk at the hospital trying to visit John after his ordeal at Baskerville. Sherlock tried to calm her down but John heard her yelling at Sherlock, saying he was to blame for what had happened to John. Hospital Security escorted her from the building and she never came back, sober or otherwise. John called her one day not too long after his return home and told her not to call or try and come by until she was clean. The 'tough love' approach, he'd said, was the only way she was going to get sober and stay that way. John didn't even know if she were still in London anymore. He supposed he should leave her a note though. That's what people do, right? Leave a note?
John sighed and took off his jacket, turning as he did so to hang it on the hook on the back of the door, next to the Belstaff that was a constant reminder of Sherlock's absence from the flat – as if John needed one. John reached out and gripped the coat pulling it close, burying his face in the fabric as he was wont to do. It had long ago lost Sherlock's scent and now only smelled generically like the flat, but that didn't matter to John, Sherlock loved that coat and it held memories of the both of them together. Sherlock had wrapped it around John on several occasions, both good and bad and it was the closest thing to Sherlock John still had. The public all associated the deerstalker hat with Sherlock-John hated that fucking hat- but this… his Belstaff … this was what the detective cherished most.
Releasing the coat, John moved toward the kitchen. He bypassed his normal routine of putting the kettle on in favour of pulling the bottle of scotch down from the cupboard. Forgoing a glass, John opened the bottle and took a swig. He moved to the sitting room and picked up a pad of paper and pen from the desk drawer. Removing his shoes, he sat down in his chair and took another drink. John didn't really have any possessions to speak of, but he did want to leave a Will of some sort. His Browning had disappeared the week after the incident on the rooftop at Bart's. Whether it was Lestrade or Mycroft that took it, John wasn't certain, but he figured it would have gone to Lestrade anyway. There were a few first edition books that Sherlock had collected over the years that should probably go to Mycroft, but John figured that would all be sorted properly anyway without his input on the matter. The one thing he did want to make sure of was that Mrs. Hudson was taken care of. The woman had been a god send to both he and Sherlock, and John knew she would have a hard time of it after he was gone. She was currently out of town now with Mrs. Turner, who insisted Mrs. Hudson go with her to visit her son in the Cotswolds for a couple of weeks. She hadn't wanted to go and leave John, but he insisted. The last thing he wanted was for her to find him. He figured two weeks was plenty of time. Mycroft or Lestrade would definitely find him within that amount of time. So then, all of the money in the bank account along with the money from the sale of all the items in the flat would go to Mrs. Hudson.
"Huh," said John aloud to the empty flat. "My entire life wrapped up in less than a paragraph. Brilliant." He took a gulp of scotch.
At the end of 'The Last Will and Testament of John Hamish Watson', John wrote, "Please make sure when you lay Sherlock to rest, you bury him in his Belstaff. As it is my wish to be cremated, I would like to be spread over Sherlock's grave if that is acceptable to Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes. This is my last request."
John took another long pull of scotch, then stood and walked over to the dish by the door and picked up the bottle of pills. Opening the bottle, he shook four out into his hand and popped them into his mouth, swallowing without anything to wash them down. John put the bottle in his pocket and went back to his chair. He pulled out another piece of paper. What should he say to Harry?
"My Dearest Harriet, I do hope you have been able to straighten your life out. Please don't let my decision to join Sherlock cause you any strife. This was the way it was always meant to be … only I should have gone first. Three years ago, you blamed Sherlock for what happened to me at Baskerville, but what you failed to see my dear baby sister is that it was I who followed Sherlock willingly. He never, ever forced me to do anything I didn't want to do. I loved him and god help him, he loved me too. We were good together Harry. The best ever. We were both halves of nothing until we met, don't you see? We made each other whole. Now that he's gone, I can't exist. I can't breathe properly without him. So don't weep for me, Harry. I needed to do this. Remember how Mum always used to say "Hope for the best, expect the worst and live in-between"? Well there is no best for me, not anymore, it disappeared with Sherlock. Nothing could be worse than that. Live in-between? That's what I've been doing for the last three fucking years and I'm just so tired."
John's eyes closed as the cocktail of pills and scotch began to take effect. He opened his eyes again and shook his head to clear it for just awhile longer.
"I love you Harry. Please always remember that. No matter how many times we fought, it was always out of love. I just wanted you to have a better life for yourself. I hope you've found that and more. Your loving brother, John."
John dug the pills out of his pocket, shook two more into his hand and this time washed them down with a shot of scotch. He needed to finish writing his next letter quickly while his head was still clear enough to do so.
"My dear man, if you're reading this then a miracle has happened and you've awakened from your long slumber. I am sorry that I am not there to greet you, but I've been waiting for so long for you to return. However, I did not want you to leave without me and when your life support was removed, I feared you might go and leave me alone. We both know I'm not so good alone. You gave my life to me and set me free – made me whole again after Afghanistan. Sherlock, the finest time I ever knew in my life was all the time I spent with you. I would give anything just to have you back again, so I can no longer remain here – trapped and alone with you gone. Pitied by Lestrade… Mrs. Hudson and even your sodding brother, I'd rather have a mere chance at seeing you in the afterlife, if there is such a thing. God! There has to be. We didn't have near enough time here in the real world after all, did we? The universe can't be that cruel, can it? One thing Sherlock - I need you to do one thing for me if a miracle has happened and you're not dead. If you should wake and I've already gone ahead, don't join me. The world needs you and your brilliant mind. I think I fell in love with you from the start because of that intellect. No one had ever been able to see the real me before you. From that moment on, I knew I would always be at your side. You can help so many people; save so many lives … so please … please, for me don't follow. Forever and always yours, John"
John stood and had to steady himself on the arm of the chair. He staggered to the bookcase and pulled down a tattered first edition collection of poetry he and Sherlock often read to each other. Flipping through the pages he stopped at the well-loved Whitman 'Leaves of Grass' poem. It was the poem Sherlock read to him most often. John lovingly stroked the page, hearing Sherlock's voice, "Oh Captain, my Captain." John smiled at the memory. He returned to flipping through the pages, next stopping on Byron's 'Love & Death'. As he'd done for Sherlock so many times before, John read the passage aloud.
"I watched thee when the foe was at our side,
Ready to strike at him—or thee and me,
Were safety hopeless—rather than divide
Aught with one loved save love and liberty."
John stopped reading as tears began to fill his eyes. He folded the letter he'd written and put it in the book. He set the book on the coffee table and pulled the pills from his pocket to take two more. How many was that now? He couldn't remember. He took another drink of scotch and realised the bottle was almost empty. Suddenly a strange thought came to John. He needed to take a shower. He wanted to be clean when they found him. John didn't know why this was suddenly so important, but he made his way to the bathroom and turned on the water. John fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, finally opting for just ripping it open when he felt the task was taking too long. Next, he unzipped his trousers and let them fall to the floor. As he stepped out of them, John's foot caught and he tripped. He fell forward into the shower and hit his head on the spigot, cutting a large gash in his forehead and knocking himself unconscious.
xxx
Mycroft tried ringing John again. Over the last hour he'd tried 24 times. Lestrade tried just as many. Something was wrong. Even if John were mad at both of them, he still would have picked up just to tell them to sod off. When John didn't answer the door, Lestrade kicked it in.
"John!" yelled Lestrade. "You here mate?" He looked down and saw the empty bottle of scotch on the floor. "John!" he yelled again.
Mycroft saw the handwritten notes in John's chair. Upon seeing the words 'The Last Will and Testament of John Hamish Watson,' he picked the pages up and shook them at Lestrade. "Greg, the bloody fool's gone and done something stupid."
Lestrade's eyes went wide when he saw what Mycroft was referring to. "Jesus H Christ. JOHN!" Lestrade headed back to the bedroom where he heard water running. Mycroft was already on the phone dialling 999.
Pushing the door open to the bathroom, Lestrade saw John's unconscious form in the tub. Rushing forward to help him, he kicked the bottle of pills that had fallen out of John's pocket when he undressed. "Fuck. John. What the hell have you done? You stupid fucking idiot." Lestrade reached forward and pulled John from the tub, setting him down on the bathroom floor. He felt for a pulse, there wasn't one. "Jesus, no mate," said Lestrade just as Mycroft appeared in the doorway.
"Mycroft, he took something. I kicked the bottle somewhere. You need to find it." Lestrade said as he began CPR.
Mycroft saw the bottle by the toilet and picked it up. "The paramedics are on the way and I've made arrangements for him at A&E," he said calmly.
"That's if he makes it," Lestrade huffed as he made compressions. "Mycroft, I'm not sure if John's heart can take this much abuse again."
Mycroft never said a word as he slid the bottle of pills into his pocket and knelt down to help Lestrade perform CPR.
As the two men worked in tandem to try and save John, sirens could be heard in the distance.
End Chapter 8
It's all a bit Romeo and Juliet right now, I know. But as I like to say... It's always darkest before the Jawn. Speaking of our dear John, we'll have to wait a chapter or two to find out how he comes out of his predicament.
A treat for Souviner Programme fans... I couldn't help but use the term 'Jacket pocket' :) did you catch it?
Next time ... Just exactly what is Sherlock's coat doing in Sebastian Moran's flat and how the hell is John going to figure out what sort of game Moriarty is playing at?
