John was mildly surprised when he came home the next morning, to see no other than Sherlock bloody Holmes, smoking at the kitchen window.
When the detective notices the intruder, he puts it out on the window sill.
„You shouldn't be smoking, you know." Said John quietly as he put his bag down on the floor. "Had a fun night?"
Sherlock wasn't amused by the way John asked that question. "Didn't sleep."
"Well, you did eat a ton of something that your body reacts to, I'm surprised you're even up and about."
"I think we have a very different definition of the phrase." Sherlock states and picks up a new cig and his lighter, but this time John jumps into action. He half sprints over to him and grabs the objects from his hands. "Stop that." He slams them on the kitchen table behind him.
Sherlock only shrugged.
"Why are you smoking in the first place? And how did you even get those?!"
"Nipped them from Lestrade yesterday."
"How did you even- oh nevermind.. what were you thinking about?"
"I've come to the realization that.. when I'm dead, one day," he quickly added at John's look, "people will forget I existed." He held up a hand to stop John from saying anything. "No, it is like that. Because in the bigger picture, we are all only star dust. Nobody is more important, and everyone gets forgotten unless they are written about or something. So, while I'm still alive, I want to make every day count, for as long as I'm able to."
John was speechless for a while. "Well I've heard about chocolates lifting up peoples spirits, but I have never heard about them making people poetic. Is that your version of anaphylaxis?" He joked with a grin.
Sherlock snorted. "I already told you that it doesn't-"
"Yeah, I know. I do listen to you. Sometimes."
They were quiet for a moment, just throwing smiles at each other.
Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. "John.. listen.. I meant what I said yesterday. I don't actually want to die. I think I never really did. I just wanted this crap to end.. I know, I'm not the easiest person on this planet. And I'm most likely only going to get worse..." He looked back at John when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm not leaving you. Yes, you're a git, and a massive pain in the ass most of the time. But I'm not leaving you. Never."
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A/N
First of all I'm sorry for never updating/completing this. I have a reason for it: a few things that I wrote about here, that I was told was just the depression, were actually different diagnosis. The tachycardia, weight loss and digestive issues are from POTS, the eating disorder and depression are from CPTSD (both have their own works on my AO3 now, called "0,2%" and "Post Traumatic Bull Shit"). I've only gotten the diagnosis during the past year, before then whatever problem I had, I was sent away by the professional specialists the second they knew about the major depression, thanks to the "are you on any medication" question.
I had thought about taking this fic down multiple times, but just for the heck of it that I got told that it's all 'just' the depression, I'm leaving it as it is.
This is still not complete, I'll finish it whenever I get the time and motivation for it.