Hallucinogenic Suicide (Pt 1)
Post Reichenbach Fall
(Completed)
- ~ - ~ -
It never stops playing in his head.
Over and over.
Every agonizing second.
Watching him fall. The sickening thud. The screams. The blood. The nausea.
The worst feeling he's ever experienced in his life. Apart from the daily pain.
It had been difficult at first, as expected. He'd just lost his best friend. His love. His world. It was devastating. But he was managing, somehow.
He'd gone to the funeral. Begged him to come back. For just one last miracle.
And then slowly, he attempted to live life again, without him. And things where somewhat okay. He found a kind of normal, within the two weeks afterwards.
And then suddenly, he can't remember when exactly, it all came crashing down on him.
Sherlock was dead. Deceased. Not living. Gone. Nonexistent. Forever.
The pain was unbearable. It still is, although it's gotten so incredibly excruciating that all he feels is numbness.
He hadn't even been aware that he'd lost it until Mrs. Hudson was in front of him, tears in her eyes.
He was sitting in his chair, wearing his dressing gown and the detectives hat that he hated wearing, clutching his violin to his chest. Curled up in a ball, rocking, muttering to himself.
"Oh John," she'd cried.
And he'd felt terrible. It felt inappropriate for her to see him like this, for him to be this far gone in front of her.
"John you haven't left the house in four days." She'd said.
He hadn't realized it'd been that long.
And then he began spiraling.
He stopped eating; he wasn't hungry. Mrs. Hudson would bring him tea and scones every morning, and that's all he ate. And then he even stopped eating those.
And then he slowly stopped drinking the tea.
He wasn't thirsty, either.
He had trouble sleeping. Wouldn't sleep, for days. And then he'd pass out somewhere in the flat, and wake up without knowing where he was. And most of the time he'd forgot that Sherlock was gone.
That was part of the reason he stopped sleeping. Because each time he woke up, it was a new realization that it hadn't all just been a terrible dream. That it had in fact happened, and with it was a new set of fresh pain.
Lestrad stopped by several times to try and get him out of the house, as requested by Mrs. Hudson. But he refused. He couldn't bare to see the light of day.
"It'll make you feel better," everyone said.
He couldn't leave the flat. It was the closest thing he had to having Sherlock still present.
One day Mrs. Hudson had thrown a fit, and had frantically began to clean the flat.
John had gone out of his mind. He'd forced her to stop, to leave them as they were. The rotting jar of fingers in the fridge was just one small piece of Sherlock that he had left, and he couldn't stand to get rid of even that.
He'd give anything for Sherlock to walk in the door with something absolutely vile. He'd kill to open the fridge to find a new head sitting in Tupperware on the top shelf, next to the milk. To see the mass scientific clutter on the dining room table move around and pile up.
Things only got worse.
He slowly lost the urge to leave his chair. It was the closest he could be. He would not leave unless to go to the bathroom.
Mrs. Hudson threatened to kick him out if he didn't get his act together. She hadn't actually done it- it was an empty threat.
Lestrad stopped by. So did Molly. Mycroft. Even Anderson.
He began hallucinating. Memories, new or old, would come together. He'd imagine Sherlock was there with him. They'd solve mysteries. Usually boring and bland, as John couldn't come up with anything complex enough to serve Sherlock's brilliance justice, but they were mysteries nonetheless.
Mrs Hudson tried to feed him all the time.
"He doesn't eat on a case. It slows him down." Was John's response. Because that's what Sherlock would say.
His sister Harry even stopped by, as a last resort. It was clear they were starting to give up on him.
Harry might not have even come. It was growing increasingly harder to tell the difference between his constant fever dreams and reality.
Eventually he locked Mrs Hudson out, as her nagging had gotten annoying. Lestrad had broken down the door, but he had also sounded like Mycroft, so John wasn't entirely sure. Someone had come in the other day after he'd locked them out. That's all he really knew. Then again that might have all been imagined as well.
Now he sits in the chair, facing the kitchen. His robe tied around him, as always. The detective cap on. The extremely out of tune violin in his lap.
What he'd give just to hear Sherlock play again. He can almost recall Mycroft attempting to play for him, just to get him to respond to someone. But Tchaikovsky doesn't sound the same as when it comes from Sherlock.
Two hours ago he'd woken up with certainty.
He's done with this.
With life.
It's too dreadful. He can't live. His life is already gone. He's lost everything. He can't live on without his love.
It's too painful. Excruciating. Constant agony. Can't tell fiction from reality anymore. There's no use in living.
The black revolver is cold and heavy in his hand. The first time he's registered the feeling of something, other than pain, in a while.
The tears are free flowing.
Should he write a note? Or did he already do that? Was it real? He can't remember if it actually happened. Or is he just now making up the scenario in which he did write one?
Who is there to even want a note?
He clutches the violin, sliding his fingers up and down the metal strings for comfort.
He takes off the hat, setting it in his lap.
He takes a shaky breath.
This moment is quite possibly the clearest moment he's had in, what, weeks? Days? Months? Years?
He's not even sure how long it's been.
The lucky cat that Sherlock had bought oh so long ago clicks as the seconds pass by. Seconds of his life, ticking by. Seconds of a life that he doesn't want to live anymore. Seconds were he should be dead.
He brings the barrel up to his temple, finger tensing on the trigger.
He hesitates.
Clutch the violin closer. Grip the hat harder.
He brings his knees up to his chest, slowly rocking.
He didn't expect it to end this way. With him taking his own life. Voluntarily.
He'd thought that he would fight for it. That he'd beg to live. That his will to live would be strong enough to keep him alive.
He was wrong.
And it's disappointing, that this is how it has to end. That he has to go out this way.
"It's elementary, my dear Watson. Suicide is a selfish way to go."
"Shut up!" He gasps, the tears flowing faster. "Hypocrite," he adds under his breath.
"Yes but I was selfish. You are not."
He adjusts his grip on the handle, pressing it harder into his temple. "You're not real. You're dead."
"Am I?"
"Yes!"
"You're still breathing. Therefore I am still alive."
"No." He chokes.
Sherlock is silent, and for a moment John thinks he's left.
"I love you Watson. I'm sorry."
He drops his head, shoulders shaking.
He would do anything just hear him say it once more. He'd willingly sell his soul to the devil, if he could just hear his voice, for real, once more.
Those words make him think of the phone call, the last seconds that he'd still been alive. The last time they spoke.
"I love you, Watson. I'm sorry" had been the last thing he'd said to him. And then he'd jumped before John could answer.
God, just pull the fucking trigger. Get it over with.
You'll be gone: you can finally find peace.
The pain will end.
He clicks off the safety. His finger is tight on the trigger, already starting to pull back.
"John."
It makes him freeze, just briefly.
He sounded so real.
He opens his eyes. He stands in the doorway, eyes wide with fear.
"John please- please just...put the gun down, please," he pleads, hands coming up to motion for him to set it down.
"Go away," he cries.
Hurt crosses his face.
He doesn't usually show pain. Anytime he shows emotions it's always from a memory.
His hair is different; shorter. Still dark and curly, but shorter.
It throws him off.
"John, please." He gasps, inching closer; cautious, fearful.
He points the gun at him.
"I said to leave! I don't want you in my head anymore! You're only making this worse!" He screams.
He doesn't mean to pull the trigger.
Sherlock stumbles back, hand moving to clutch his shoulder. He makes a choking sound. Surprise crosses his face, followed by pain.
Blood bubbles up from between his fingers.
John clutches his head. The hallucinations are getting too real. Why right now? When he's trying to end them? Is this his mind fighting back?
"John-"
He can only shake his head, gripping the detectives cap and the pistol harder.
"It's me, John. Please. I'm here," he chokes out, pain so incredibly evident on his face.
He presses the hot barrel back to his temple. Things are getting too far out of hand. He needs it to end before he losses it completely.
"No John!"
He clicks over to the next chamber.
The floor creaks.
Suddenly the pistol is gone, ripped from his hand.
He opens his eyes to find frantic blues searching his face.
"Oh my bloody lord John," he gasps.
His hand is warm when he touches him. He can feel them. They feel solid- real.
"John I'm here, please," he gasps, tears in his eyes. "I'm real."
He releases the cap. He grasps his wrist, hand sliding over his.
His left hand is warm and slick. He pulls away to see blood.
His hand is covered in blood.
"You- you're...bleeding."
"Yes," he gasps, "you- bloody shot me. It's- nice to see you too." He struggles.
He reaches out to touch his face, not caring that he's smearing blood across his forehead.
His fingers glide through his shorter hair, and he tugs. Real.
At least, it feels real.
He touches his nose, fingers sliding over his eyelids. Across his cheekbones. Over the cartilage of his ears. Down to the junction in his neck. Feeling for a pulse.
It's there. A strong fluttering under his fingers. Blood pumping through his arteries. Quickly.
Alive.
"You- you died. I watched you die,"
"You saw what I needed you to see." He gasps.
John can only stare at him. It has yet to really hit him. This is too surreal to actually be happening. He's dreamt about this moment for what seems like an eternity. Wishing it to come true so much that he lost his mind. He'd wanted it so bad he imagined it did, every day. All day.
And yet here he is. And he feels real. Looks real. Sounds real.
He grasps his trench coat (new, different from the one John has come to know and love).
It smells like him. More than the cap and dressing gown do. Their scent faded. John had smothered them in his own by sniffing them so much.
It can't be. It just can't.
Sherlock takes his chin, pulling him in closer, lips just nanometers from his.
"Believe me, please." He cries.
"I- can't."
How is he suppose to believe this? How can he let himself believe this is real, when in an hour or so he will wake up and it will all be gone again? He can't go through that again. He can't mourn him all over again. He can't afford to think this is real, to believe it, only for him to find out its fake. He's only seeing what he wants to.
Sherlock captures his lips.
It takes his breath away.
He's warm. Soft. Lips shaky against his, almost like this is difficult.
But it is clear, crisp, certain. Real. Real right now. In this moment. Actually happening.
It must be. It has to be. He wants it to be.
He pulls away far too soon.
"John, call an ambulance." He gasps.
And then he slumps over, falling into him.
John hesitates. His heaviness is real.
Everything in this moment feels so incredibly real.
He finds his phone in his pocket.
He calls the ambulance.
He puts pressure on Sherlock's arm, and somewhere in the back of his mind he recognizes it as broken. He pulls off the dressing gown's waist tie, tightly tying it around Sherlock's upper arm as a tourniquet.
They arrive. They pick him up. They take them in the ambulance. They ask him questions.
John can't answer them. He's too overtaken by the bouncing line on the monitor.
Sherlock's heart is beating. It says so, on the monitor.
He's alive. Shot, but alive.
"Is this... is this real?" He breaths, glancing up at the paramedic. They look at him, concerned.
"Yes, sir. This is very real."
"But I...I watched him die," he breaths, grasping his hand.
"Well you called just in time sir. He didn't die. He's alive."
Tears spring to his eyes, streaming down his cheeks uncontrollably.
"Real. It's real. He's real. Really here,"
"Yes, sir."
John vaguely recognizes Lestrad when they get to the hospital.
He looks concerned. And then confused. Followed by shock.
They take Sherlock away. He goes into surgery. John feels too weak to fight them, even though he needs just one more moment; just another second with him, one in which it all seems so incredibly real.
He can't help but know that he'll never experience this again; this rare moment where his Holmes really does come back, for just one last miracle.
He's laid down in a hospital bed. They hook him up to an IV, pushing him fluids. He feels a little better, as a result. Enough for him to pass out.
- ~ -
"Do you think John did it?"
"I mean...why would he?"
"Of course he did. He obviously hasn't slept properly in months. Severely emaciated and dehydrated; hasn't eaten in weeks or had anything to drink in days. All contributors to hallucinations."
"But that doesn't mean he shot Sherlock!"
"He has gunpowder on his fingertips. He recently shot a firearm."
"What? How could you know that-"
His hand is suddenly taken, and his eyes blearily shoot open.
Lestrad sniffs his fingers, and Mycroft sends him a cocked eyebrow. Lestrad looks slightly annoyed at being proven wrong, by yet another Holmes.
"Boys! He's awake!" Mrs. Hudson exclaims quietly.
They all look down at him.
Suddenly John feels overwhelmed. Where the hell is he?
"What-" his throat is strained, like he hasn't used it in days.
"You're in the hospital." Mrs. Hudson explains.
"You called in an emergency. The paramedics picked you and Sherlock up from the flat."
Sherlock?
Suddenly he's bolting up from the bed.
"Whoa!" They push him back down.
"Sherlock? Where is he? What- what happened?"
Slowly, it's all coming back to him, like some crazy dream. He's not sure which parts are real.
"Wouldn't we like to know," Mycroft hums, and they both glare at him.
"He's still in surgery. They say he should be out soon." Mrs. Hudson explains.
"...surgery..."
"He was shot." Lestrad elaborates.
All of it, maybe?
"...By who?"
"Well the largest suspect at the moment is you, Dr. Watson." Mycroft huffs, obviously unamused by the entire situation.
Both Greg and Mrs. Hudson shoot him daggers.
John rubs his face, just now noticing his beard. How long has he been out?
"He ...died?"
"Three months ago, yes. But he was found alive in your flat this afternoon." Mycroft drawls.
What the hell is going on?
"Mr. Holmes," a voice speaks up from the doorway. They all turn to see a nurse.
She looks momentarily thrown off, but quickly rebounds by clearing her throat. "Your brother has just came out of surgery, I can take you to him if you'd like."
John jerks upright, his heart suddenly pounding.
Mycroft looks about ready to say yes, but then he pauses, looking over at John.
"May I take Watson with me?"
She frowns. "I- I'm not sure-"
"Great. A wheelchair would be nice, thank you."
- ~ -
Monitors beep. Tubes come out of his nose, wires crisscrossing over him.
His right arm is held in a sling.
Mycroft wheels him up to the left side of the bed, and John hesitantly takes his hand.
It's warm, rough and calloused.
Suddenly he's sobbing, gripping his hand tight.
It's all too good to be true.
"Please, never do this to me, ever again."
He stays with him for possibly hours, just listening to the constant beating of the heart monitor.
Mycroft leaves, and Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Lestrad all come by to see him.
Sherlock's parents even stop by, sobbing when they see him alive and well.
Nurses come and go, checking his vitals and administering drugs into his IV.
When everyone's gone, John carefully crawls into the bed with him, holding him as close as he can. He gently rests a hand over his heart, relief flooding through him when he faintly feels the beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest.
He's not sure how long he lays there with him in his arms. He might have fallen asleep.
"Sir," a voice wakes him up.
He hums.
"Sir, visiting hours are over."
John grips Sherlock tighter. "No."
"I'm sorry sir, but you need to leave."
"No." A groggy voice speaks up.
John looks at him. Elation floods through him when Sherlock squeezes his hand, eyes opening to look at him.
"Let him stay, please."
"You- you're awake!" The nurse says, suddenly running to check his vitals.
Suddenly nurses and doctors flood the room.
"Hello Sir, I'm doctor Carter, orthopedic surgeon." A nice looking man introduces himself, someone John recognizes as the man who came to talk to Mycroft and Sherlock's parents earlier.
He extends his hand for Sherlock to shake, but Sherlock keeps his hand firmly wrapped around John's.
"I'm assuming you're the one who chose to just stick me in a cast, yes?"
The doctor's smile twitches slightly, "Well, yes, I did-"
"Instead of using internal fixation in order to properly piece my shattered humorous back together, because you supposed a cast would just be easiest."
"I-"
"Because I was the least important at the moment, As seen by your interns intent on the room next door."
"Sherlock," John growls.
He stops, rolling his eyes.
The doctor obviously is biting his lip. "Yes. We are planning on doing the fixation tomorrow. At first I was planning on internal, but after going in I came to the idea that external might actually be better. I decided it would be best to close up and figure it out instead of leaving you open on the table for much longer than necessary."
Sherlock huffs, ignoring him.
They ask him a ton of questions, and a couple police come in to ask some more.
Sherlock makes up some bullshit story about a masked man coming in and shooting him, and then leaving. They seem skeptical, but find it valid enough to leave.
John is asked to leave one more time, or at least to return to his room (after she realizes he too is a patient), but Sherlock yells at the nurse, and she scurries away, finally leaving them alone.
Sherlock sighs in relief.
They lay in silence.
"I'm sorry I shot you." John whispers.
He shakes his head. "It's not your fault. Don't ever think it is. If anything it's mine. I faked my own death and failed to tell you that I was okay."
John tries to hold back the tears, but they come anyways.
"I'm so sorry," Sherlock breaths, pressing a kiss to his head.
"Don't ever do that again, god."
"I didn't know how much it would hurt you,"
"Of course it fucking hurt me!" John suddenly explodes. "What the bloody hell Sherlock! What were you expecting? For me to just shrug it off? Move on? I fucking love you, you bloody idiotic bastard!"
Sherlock's mouth pops open, and he's silent for a moment.
John realizes that that's the first time he's ever admitted it, out loud to the world.
He loves Sherlock Holmes.
He meant to tell him on the phone, after Sherlock had said it. But he never got the chance.
"I- I never expected anyone to care enough to...I'm sorry."
John frowns. "How can you think so lowly of yourself? Of course people care. You're important to a lot of people Sherlock. You broke peoples' hearts, you know that?"
He takes a shuttering breath, eyes flickering over his face.
John leans in, capturing his lips.
It's much better than the one they shared in the flat earlier.
He tastes exactly as John remembers, his teeth grazing his top lip like it's done so many times before. It's passionate, drawn out and intense.
Sherlock breaks away first, breathing heavily against him. "I love you too, Watson."
That makes his heart explode.
"Please, tell me this is real."
"It is."
"Never leave me, ever."
"I won't."
They cuddle closer, John snuggling up into the crook of Sherlock's good arm, head resting on his chest.
"John."
"Yes?"
"Please, promise me- promise me that you'll never do that again. You'll never try to kill yourself."
John wants to make that promise. But he can't. What if this is all still a dream? And he wakes up, and Sherlock is gone. He's not sure if he can't live through the pain all over again. It's not fair. He shouldn't have to live through hell.
"Promise me, that if I ever do go, for real, that you'll move on. That you'll find someone else and learn to be happy again. I can't- I can't rest peacefully without knowing that you'll be okay."
"I don't know how to."
Sherlock sighs. "But I need you too."
"I shouldn't need to. Nothings going to happening to you-"
"But if something did-"
"No!"
Sherlock looks at him.
"Stop- stop saying that, like- like this isn't real or something, like I'm still dreaming- I can't- I need this to be real."
"It is, I promise this is."
John shutters. "I'm sorry... I just, I can't promise you that."
Sherlock's quiet for a moment. "At least, promise that you'll try?"
John sighs. "Okay."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
It's silent, except for the monitor. John's almost back asleep when Sherlock mumbles something.
"Hm?"
"You smell atrocious. When's the last time you showered?"
He snorts, playfully shoving him. "Oh shut up."
"Fine. But you're definitely taking a shower tomorrow, before you give me the plague."
- ~ -
John blinks, eyes bleary from sleep. He stretches, yawning. He rubs his eyes, and then throws a hand at Sherlock to tell him to wake up.
He hits the bed. There's no one there.
He bolts upright, frantically looking around.
The room is empty. He's the only one.
He throws off the covers, ignoring that he's only wearing boxers. He darts out of the bedroom, stomach dropping.
Panic has already set in. He's imagined it all. It never happened. He's still dead.
He finds him in the kitchen in his (cleaned) dressing gown, stirring a cup of tea.
He cocks an eyebrow. "Well good morning," he remarks, a smirk on his face.
John nearly cries out in relief, clutching his chest. He rushes to him, crushing him in a hug. "Never fucking do that again," he cries.
Sherlock stumbles slightly, not expecting John's reaction. He sets the cup on the counter, hesitantly hugging him back.
"Do what?" He asks.
"Leave!"
John grips his robe, holding him tight as he sobs into his chest. "You scared the fucking shit out of me!"
Sherlock is silent for a moment. "I...don't understand?"
John shifts to look up at him. "I thought you were gone."
He bites his lip, remembering that all-too-familiar pain of waking up every morning only to realize that it wasn't a nightmare. That he'd actually lost his best friend. His love. The best thing that ever happened to him: gone.
It was the same excruciating pain every time, the same feeling as when it actually happened. His grieving starting over everyday. An excruciating loop of never ending pain.
Worse than the time he was taken prisoner and tortured in Afghanistan.
It wasn't something he could possibly convey to him. How was he suppose to tell him how much agony it put him through? How is he suppose to tell him how waking up to an empty bed every morning tore him apart?
"I thought- like none of this was real-"
Sherlock's face becomes grave, and he hugs him tighter. "John, this is real."
John knows that. Or, he tries to believe it. It's been two months, and he knows he should believe it by now, but there's still that doubt. And it's prevented him from fully reinvesting himself back into their relationship.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into his hair, pulling his robe around him so it encompasses them both.
He's apologized endlessly, and each time it hurts, because John knows Sherlock just wants things to return to how they were. But he can't afford to do that.
"I know." He breaths.
Sherlock presses kisses to the crown of his head, slowly working down to his ear.
"Please forgive me, John. Please."
He breaths shakily. "I already have."
Sherlock might think that his aloof behavior is because he's still upset with him, but the truth is that that John forgave him a long time ago. He thought that maybe he never would, that he could never fully forgive him for the pain he put him through, but in reality he was just so incredibly happy to have him back that he can't find it in him to still be angry and upset with him. Not when he could be spending time with him; time that he might not get later.
His detachedness from their relationship is really because he's trying to save himself. He can't risk waking up one day only to realize it never happened. He can't risk how much more pain it will put him through.
Sherlock drags them towards the couch, pulling John onto his lap. He wipes his tears from his face, grabbing his hand.
"It doesn't feel like it." He breaths.
John sighs, looking away out of guilt. "I know. I'm sorry."
He can almost feel Sherlock's stare. He's trying desperately to deduce him, like he's a crime scene.
In a way, he sort of is.
Messy and disjointed, sad and broken. Ugly and brutal.
"What's really wrong, John? You know I can't read emotions."
John feels like he'd be guilt tripping him. He knows how bad Sherlock feels about it, and he hates to remind him.
And it makes him feel stupid; that it's been this long and he's still so paranoid. He feels embarrassed. Sherlock seems to be under the impression that it's been put behind them, that John knows for certain.
But the truth is he doesn't. It still terrifies him, on a daily basis.
He shifts so he can hear the thumping of his heart in his chest. It always soothes him; reminds him that Sherlock is alive. At least, in this moment he still is.
"It's nothing." He breaths, finally feeling like he can relax.
"No, it's definitely something. Please?" He's begging. Sherlock doesn't beg.
John huffs, squeezing his hand. "I just...I'm not over it yet. I'm still, terrified that one day I'll wake up and this all will just have been one huge hallucination. That you aren't real."
Sherlock's breath shutters. "Self preservation," he breaths.
John nods. Exactly.
They sit in silence for a good ten minuets.
"I think I have a solution." Sherlock says.
John highly doubts that, but decides to humor him. "Oh yeah? What is it?"
"Follow me and I'll show you," he growls into his ear.
And John's totally down for that.
———
Playlist:
The Funeral (Band of Horses)
Caves (Haux)
All I Want (Kodaline)
You Found Me (The Fray)
Dark Paradise (Lana Del Rey)
