Warning: Suicide attempt
Disclaimer: Original characters belong to Sir ACD, but these are Steven Moffat's and Mark Gatiss's. I simply get to play.
A/N: I know it's been forever guys, and I'm really sorry about that. I was in Oregon for longer than I had expected to be. Anyway, it was hard to write this chapter, so I don't doubt that it'll be hard to read as well. But at least the end is sweet. I swear this is the last sad chapter for a while. After this, it's on to the lovey dovey Johnlock stuff. Anyway, enjoy! Feedback is always welcome. :)
Breaking Means Mending
Stupid, thought Sherlock. He knew that emotions and feelings were a distraction. And he knew that John's rejections shouldn't have hurt him as bad as it had. But it did. Sherlock's face was puffy and red as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Tears continued to roll down his face, his choked sobs escaping every once in a while. He had only managed to take twenty-seven Advil. He had hoped to take at least fifty, but his body betrayed him on the twenty-eighth. He had begun to throw them back up, so he had dropped the bottle as he ran away, the pills scattering all across the room.
Stupid. I allowed myself to feel, knowing that there would be disappointment, and now I'm going to kill myself because of it. Sherlock had already tried to talk himself out of it. He had gone from "I'm fine" to desperately pleading with himself to let go of the kitchen knife in his hands. He was sweating and hyperventilating, and though it was mostly the medicine's effects, Sherlock knew deep down that he was also afraid. He didn't know what to do or what to expect. He just knew that in the end, he wanted to die. Not a long, slow, and painful death, but a swift one. Unfortunately, since Sherlock wasn't in his right mind, he didn't know what was quick and simple as to what would be drawn out and agonizing.
Last chance Holmes, he thought to himself. Last chance to put the knife down and walk away. He tried, struggled to let go of the knife, but he just couldn't do it. Sherlock looked at the clock above the mirror. It read 9:33 PM. He walked over to the bath and laid himself down in the lukewarm water, leaving his pants on, and slit his wrists. The blood came pouring out instantly, dying the water a deep red color. Sherlock had been expecting pain, but instead, he was comfortably numb. He closed his eyes, willing himself to die.
o0o
John wandered aimlessly around the busy streets of London, not knowing what to do or think, or even where to go. He was astonished. Astonished by Sherlock's advance and by his own reaction to it. John had actually been quite flattered, he enjoyed being the object of Sherlock's interest since it seemed that there had never been anyone else. Why he had laughed at his flatmate was beyond him. But in the end, he had inevitably hurt Sherlock. He wasn't going to go out with his flatmate. That would be weird.
Or would it? John asked himself. Before, he would have pushed his gay fantasies away, but Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. He was different. He wasn't just any bloke, he was Sherlock. John supposed that he should go back and apologize, but he couldn't bring himself to do it until he was sure about what was happening to his brain.
John decided that he could use a coffee to help himself think, so he went to a little café not far from Baker Street. Or the coffee will make me go crazy and I'll throw myself under a bus once and for all, thought John with a smirk. John strolled into the coffee shop and bought himself a cappuccino, his thoughts still racing. He picked up his coffee and began for the exit, but was stopped by a blonde waitress.
"Hi," she said with a broad smile.
"Hello," replied John tiredly.
"So...John," she read off of his coffee cup, "do you want to sit with me for a minute?"
John thought for a second. He really did need to get back to Sherlock, but he supposed that a couple minutes of flirting wouldn't hurt.
"Sure...Elle," he read off of her name tag.
They sat down and she began a meaningless ramble of words that included things about her life and her favorite things to do, as well as a few questions that caught John off guard. He didn't really care about the blonde girl in front of him, he just wanted to kill some time before he had to face Sherlock again.
The blonde girl, Elle, went on and on until finally stumbling on THE question.
"So," she said with a seductive bat of her lashes, "do you have a girlfriend?"
John was taken aback. How had he not noticed that she was trying to sleep with him? God, John thought. Am I really that dense? He wanted to let her off easy, but with all the chaos that had just ensued, he really just needed to be blunt.
"No, actually, I don't." Her smile looked a little too hopeful. "But, I have just realized that I am in love with my flatmate whom I have to get back to. I just hope he's not dead by the time I get back," John added sarcastically. She gaped at him as he dashed out of the café.
John ran for home, checking his watch as he went.
"Shit," he muttered. He said that he would be back for dinner, but it was already half past nine. John ran as fast as he could, but with all of the people out that night, it took John seven minutes to make what was normally a three minute run. John banged through the front door of 221B, taking the steps two at a time.
"Sherlock," John yelled at the top of his lungs. He had reached the door to his flat, pushing it open harder than was necessary.
"Sherlock," John shouted again. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
And then he looked around the room. He saw the Advil scattered across the floor, the bottle had clearly been dropped. He saw what had been vomited up, basically nothing but medicine and stomach acid. John's stomach churned in fear.
"Sherlock," John cried as loud as he could running past the bathroom and into Sherlock's room. He opened the door with a loud crash, still not seeing Sherlock. He stood in the doorframe, his hands knotted in his hair. John Watson, former Army Doctor John Watson was panicking.
That's when he heard it; the bath water was running. John sprinted to the bathroom jiggling the knob to no avail. John began shouldering the door, hearing Sherlock's groans of pain just on the other side.
John was using his bad shoulder, and it was sore long before he realized it. In frustration, he kicked it, the door collapsing in on itself and breaking at the hinges. Bloody water was spilling over the edges of the tub, Sherlock laying in it. He was still clutching the kitchen knife that he had used to cut open his wrists.
"Oh my God, Sherlock," John whispered. He splashed forward into the blood stained water, ruining his Levi Strauss blue jeans and his favorite brown jumper. John grabbed the knife and cast it aside. He pressed his hands to the cuts on his flatmate's wrists, hoping that the pressure would stop the bleeding. John may have been an army doctor, but seeing his flatmate like this made him lose all of his medical knowledge.
"John, is that you dear? What's with all the ruckus?" the landlady, Mrs. Hudson called from the entrance to the flat.
"Mrs. Hudson! Dial 9-1-1! NOW!" John shouted at her.
"What's going on dear? Is everything alri- oh dear Lord. I'm going! I'm going to the phone!" Mrs. Hudson ran as quick as she could to the phone and dialed the 9-1-1 operator. She was in hysterics, but she managed to give out the information that they needed with John's help. Within minutes, Sherlock was being rolled away on a gurney, the Emergency Medical Response siren blaring as they sped of to St. Bart's. Mrs. Hudson broke down crying while John stared after the ambulances. It's all my fault, he thought.
o0o
Four days later, Sherlock was released from the hospital, but John was still told to keep a close eye on him. Sherlock had had his stomach pumped and his wrists stitched and bandaged. He had been put on plenty of morphine so he slept while they cleaned out his system. He had needed a blood transfusion as well. Sherlock was still very heavy hearted when he left the hospital.
John picked him up from St. Bart's and they took a cab back to the flat. Sherlock was silent the whole drive home. Once they reached 221B, John hugged him. Sherlock was stunned. He had not expected a hug from John.
"Dear God," John said with a sniff. "You have no idea how glad I am to not be picking you up from the morgue."
Sherlock was silent. They mounted the stairs to their flat, which John had managed to tidy up in-between infirmary visits, just for Sherlock's return home. John made Sherlock sit on the couch while John pampered him with food and tea. John flipped on the telly and brought Sherlock blankets and a pillow. Finally, John sat down with Sherlock.
"John, I really don't need all of this," Sherlock gestured at the mountain of things John had brought him.
"Sherlock, I just want you to be happy. Please, don't ever try to kill yourself again. You'd kill about half of me if you succeeded," John said tearily as he scooted closer to his flatmate.
"But, John, I thought you didn't care about me that way. I thought you rejected me," Sherlock said confusedly.
Damn, thought John. Is it really that obvious?
"Sherlock, I only reacted that way because I was trying to deny my feelings for you," John whispered as he placed a hand on Sherlock's face, caressing his cheek. "The truth is, truth is, Sherlock, I'm in love with you. I have been this whole time, I just haven't been able to admit it until now. And Sherlock, I'm fine with being gay, with being in a relationship with a man, as long as that man is you."
Sherlock was once again stunned, his mouth slightly agape. He was the happiest person on earth, he just didn't know how to express it.
"John, I...I..." Sherlock stammered.
"Bloody hell," John muttered, and then leaned in to kiss the consulting detective, his consulting detective. He smiled against Sherlock's lips.
They broke apart, both grinning like fiends.
"Sherlock?" John needed to get his attention.
"Yes John?" Sherlock beamed at him. John beamed back.
"I think I love you," John whispered.
"I think I love you too John," Sherlock whispered back.
The rest of their day was filled with whispers and giggles and "I love you"s, as well as compassionate caresses and slow, sweet kisses. Both men were happy as could be, all memories of Sherlock's suicide attempt forgotten.