AN: *sidles on sheepishly* Erm... Hi. I'm really really really really sorry this is so late. I haven't updated for months. I won't blame you if you thought I had fallen off the planet or gone mad from lack of Sherlock or just plain hate me for abandoning this story for so long. I don't really have an excuse other than life got in the way – I had my GCSEs and I've just started college (with some hiccups along the way, I won't go into details). But basically, I am going to The Game Is On *squees* this weekend and I suddenly thought – what would Mark Gatiss say if he knew you had abandoned your story? He would not like this. He would not like you. So, spurred on my guilt and shame and a need for a hypothetical Mark Gatiss's approval, I present to you this chapter.
Sorry. Again.
When I wake, I am alone. Nothing much changed there. What have changed are my surroundings. Which is weird. I don't remember moving... What do I remember?
Can I remember?
I don't think I know how.
Maybe if I look around a bit. Might jog my memory.
Nope.
Well, I'm in a hospital that much is certain.
Oh shit.
I remember. Oh, god, I remember it all. Everything. I'd lain down to die but I couldn't even do that. Not dying seems to be a talent of mine.
And a bloody annoying one at that.
I'm just so tired...
My wrists hurt.
I examine them closely – not that I can see much, they're all wrapped up in bandages. I could peel the dressings off: but what would be the point? Someone would only put them back on. It's just causing more trouble, prolonging the agony a little longer.
I was so sure that it would end this time. I could have sworn...
Sherlock!
Suddenly I'm sitting up, ripping tubes and wires from my body, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I don't know when I started moving, only that I am now and there would be little point in trying to stop it.
I'm walking through corridors now – if you can call it walking. Staggering, lurching, like I'm drunk. I wish I were drunk. I can see why she does it now. This will just be another reason for her to drink, if she even notices I'm gone.
My face is wet. When did I start crying? Maybe I never stopped.
I'll stick to the fire escape. Less noticeable. No one to hear then.
It's windy outside, especially at this height. It feels like it wouldn't take much just to knock me off. I'm still going up. I expect I'll just keep going until I can't go any further. Another habit. No reason to stop doing it now.
I was so sure that I'd seen him. Just before I slipped under. The second time must have been a dream: something to do with all those drugs they gave me.
I'd live off those drugs if I could.
What's the point?
I don't care.
I just want it to end.
I don't understand. Why couldn't I help? I was supposed to be his friend, his best friend. I don't know how he could feel so lonely and broken that that was the only way out. He had me, didn't he?
But now I don't even have him.
I don't even know why I feel like this.
Surely it shouldn't be this bad. Surely it should have stopped hurting this much. If anything, it's getting worse. I just want it to stop. To end something, properly, on my own terms. I couldn't control being shot, couldn't control being sent back home, couldn't stop him falling, falling, falling, falling, falling...
I want to stab myself through the eyes. Into my brain. Just get rid of everything.
Being a soldier is supposed to make you strong. It just made me more breakable.
I've stopped now. Can't go any further. I'm not at Bart's. Life doesn't work like that; it would be too symmetrical if I was. Life's not all nice rounded endings with a moral to finish – it's just a series of jagged edges, like broken glass. Easy to cut yourself. Easy to bleed.
How did he do this? It's sodding terrifying. Standing on the edge of my existence. Any second now the wind could blow me off. Just one strong gust and I'll be gone.
I hope that happens.
I don't think I can jump.
Coward.
I can't.
How else will it stop?
If he were with me, I could do it. No, don't be an idiot – if he were here, you wouldn't be in this bloody situation. So now you're stupid and a coward.
Well done, Watson. Well done.
The wind's picking up. I'm waiting again, that's what's happening.
I hate this.
Suddenly, the door crashes open behind me. I whirl round, eyes wide and hands outstretched, ready to fend off my attacker. Attacker – stupid choice of word. They'll be trying to talk me down, not attack me. You could argue that those are one and the same right now though. I don't want to be talked down. I refuse to be.
I've been staring at the person for some time now, without seeing them. I think they're speaking. I don't know, I can't hear over all this wind.
Definitely stronger now.
I blink and the figure comes into focus.
I stagger backwards, forgetting that I am, in fact, on the edge of the rooftop of a very tall building. So there is nothing to stagger onto.
It's not like the cartoons. I don't hang there, suspended, legs whirling and arms flailing. One second I am there, the next I am not.
I only have a few moments of weightlessness, air buffeting my body: but I have enough time to realise my mistake –
I don't want to die.
My last thought, before I hit the tarmac, before my world explodes into a starburst of pain and white, before the black comes crashing down - Please, God, let me live.
