CHAPTER TWO
Meeting him in the lab. His wink. Pink lady. Out to dinner. Chinese symbols. Kidnapped by the Black Lotus. Bombs strapped to people, to me. Moriarty. Buckingham Palace. Irene Adler. Dartmoor. In the cage. Moriarty's trial. The fall. Oh God. The fall. Sherlock. SHERLOCK! NO! I can't… that was me… he died… SHERLOCK! Fuck. That's why I tried. I don't deserve to still be here. I deserve to be dead. Sherlock. Sherlock.
I'm wrenching the tubes out of my body. They are keeping me alive. I shouldn't be alive. I'm thrashing around. Trying to mess up everything. To hurt myself. I rake my nails across my body, creating raised red welts. I can see the scars and wounds I have been giving myself these past three years. I push my nails into the cuts, pulling them open again. Warm blood. The doctors are running around. Their voices raised in alarm. I am being pushed back against the bed. I'm fighting them. STOP TRYING TO SAVE ME DAMN IT! Binding me too the bed. I can't move. Putting the tubes back in. Checking my vitals. NO. Just let me die. Please. I'm crying now. Tears running down my face. The blackness is closing in again.
"please. please just let me die" My voice is barely audible as the black takes over my mind, and choked with tears. I don't want to live anymore. There is nothing here for me. My only thing was Sherlock and now he is gone, all because of me. I let him jump. I did nothing to stop him. He meant so much to me. Everything to me. And I never told him. I should have told him. There were so many things I should have told him. I loved him. I should have told him I loved him. I love you Sherlock. Please let me die. I just want to be with Sherlock. Please….please…
It's dark. I like the dark. It's comforting. Hushed voices.
"He came around, but couldn't remember anything. Thought he was back in the army. I told him he had tried to kill himself. Something in that triggered his memories and he started having a panic attack. Pulled out his tubes, opened the wounds all over his body. We strapped him down, got everything hooked back up again. He was begging us to just let him die. Hasn't come round since."
"Oh, my poor Johnny! I don't know what to do! How did I never notice this! What kind of sister am I? Oh god, I knew Sherlock's death hit him hard, but I thought it was getting better, not worse! I should have seen him going down hill! I should have done something! And little Johnny tried to kill himself! I will never forgive myself."
"Harriet, you can't blame yourself. Clearly he has struggled with depression before, so he would know how to hide it."
"But he's my brother! Even if he had tried to hide it, I should have been able to tell!"
"Please don't beat yourself up over this. I have had so many patients who were here for attempted suicide, and I know there is nothing you could have done. Family and friends always beat themselves up, but if you do that, you are much less capable of being here for John now, when he really needs you."
Now there is just hushed crying. I open my eyes a bit; it's still blindingly white. Why are hospitals always so white? They should be muted colors because most people can't take this brightness when they aren't feeling well.
"I'm thirsty," I croak out. My throat is parched dry, as I have had all my liquids inserted right into my stomach the whole time I have been in the hospital.
The doctor rushes over from where she has been sitting with Harry, and carefully helps me drink some water. "How are you feeling John?" She asks.
"Like shit," I groan. It's true. My body aches everywhere and my head is foggy. My chest and stomach kept getting random spasms of pain, and I am super thirsty.
"Do you want me to prop you up a bit so we can talk?" I nod at her. She gently puts some pillows under my head. My head hurts when I am first propped up.
"Hey Johnny," Harry says softly, coming over and sitting on my bad. She reaches out and takes my hand. Her face is tear streaked, her eyes red and puffy from crying. I smile thinly at her.
My doctor pulls a chair up to the side of my bed, and grabs a clipboard. "I am Pamela Stevenson, and along with the help of my colleague Tristan Freider, we have been helping keep your body alive." Pamela doesn't smile much.
"What happened?" I ask quietly. I can barely remember anything.
"Well let's start with what you remember and with Harriet's help, we can fill all the wholes." Pamela says.
"Sherlock died," I start, my eyes already filling with tears, "He jumped off of the roof of St. Bart's, and I did nothing. I let him die." The tears are pouring down my face now.
"Johnny, It wasn't your fault!" Harry says, squeezing my hand.
"What about the day you tried to kill yourself? What were you thinking about? Because Sherlock Holmes died three years ago John," Pamela says, her blue eyes piercing me.
"I… Had gone to visit… His grave?" I can't remember what happened very well, it's all fuzzy, and it hurts my head.
"Yes," Pamela says, jotting notes.
"It was… The day… He died… Like an anniversary of his death almost… I struggle with depression… I have since I was a kid… Our family was… Broken. When I decided to go to war… I had no intentions of… Coming home again. I could die honorably; give my life for my country. The problem was, when I was shot the medics saved me and sent me home. I was going to kill myself the day I met Mike in the park… He introduced me to… Sherlock. Sherlock… Saved me… And I couldn't save him…"
"Oh Johnny!" Harry is crying again.
"Please keep going," Pamela urges me.
"Sherlock… Kept me going… But when he died… I didn't have anything to live for… I don't have anything to live for. I have been… Pushing through in the hopes that… Sherlock was faking it… I know it is a childish day dream but… I need him."
"And the day you tried to kill yourself?"
"I was visiting his grave again, and it all just hit me. Sherlock is really dead, he isn't coming back. I just want to be with him again. I don't have a reason to still be here. I remember riding home again… But after that I don't remember anything after that. Everything goes black until waking up here." I look around "here" nervously.
"Well, you got back to your flat. We don't know all the details, what was going through your head or anything, but we can piece together an idea of what happened. You went for the meds. Sleeping pills, Advil, anything you had, and took them all. Apparently this wasn't enough, and pills don't cause too much pain, so you started cutting. You used some pretty big knives, and you're going to have those scars forever. This again, wasn't enough so you grabbed your gun. You shot yourself in the stomach, not the head, which is surprising, but it almost worked. If you were really determined, I would have guessed you would go for the head. That is a sure death. My guess is you got scared at the last minute. We got a call, a man freaking out and crying about how his best friend had just tried to kill himself. We rushed to your flat. I was on the team. You were in the room Sherlock had used, laying on the bed. Knives and pill bottles were all over the floor, blood covering the floor and mattress. You were passed out, nearly dead, and there was a man with you, staunching the blood flow." Pamela says. She has compassion in her voice, and she looks sad as she watches me.
A man? Why would there be a man there? Who? Lestrade? "Who?" I ask.
"I don't know," Pamela says, "When he saw us arrive he got up and left. Didn't say a word to us."
"Can you describe him please?"
"Tall, and very pale. He had dark curly hair, and wore a long black coat."
Hello, sorry it took so long for me to post again, but it will probably be a week in between each chapter. I am not a medical expert, I hate hospitals personally, so I apologize for anything I got wrong. Thank you so much for reading! It means a lot to me, I don't usually share me work with people.