Rating: K+ for mild language, talk of suicide, some violence.
Warnings: Post-reichenbach and all the angst that implies. Apparent character suicide and discussion thereof.
A/N: Sorry for the late update, I'm still in the process of moving into Germany and I just got internet. Got this idea from Star-Eye, the fabulous. There's a lot of fanfiction detailing John angsting after Sherlock, and vice versa, but no one really discusses the fact that Sherlock committed suicide, under questionable circumstances besides. And kudos if you catch the canon reference!
And I know that I've been writing some heavy stuff, don't worry, there's humor in the future! This will be a "Five times John punched sherlock and one time he punched M. instead" fic.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. The Bible passage is from the Bible, if you want to know you can look it up in the translation of your choice, if not, you can ignore. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.
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One time, John punched Sherlock when he was 'dead'.
It had been exactly three weeks since the fall. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. Thirty thousand, two hundred and forty minutes. Exactly.
John was looking at where the body had landed, staring blankly at the blood that wasn't there, turning the sidewalk red. He sat on one of the benches in front of the hospital, trying to pull himself together, trying to ease the pain in his leg, the ache in his heart, the confusion of his mind.
Why had Sherlock done this? To himself, to John. Sherlock had been prone to self-destructive behaviors, but he knew his limits, to a certain extent. And John made sure he never exceeded them. But suicide?
Sherlock loved life, the thrill of the case, the excitement of solving a good puzzle. Yes, he got bored, but he shot the wall, for heaven's sakes, not himself.
And if Sherlock didn't love the case, he certainly loved himself. The words 'vain' and 'narcissistic' hardly covered it. If his head was any more bloated it would have made a nice hot air balloon. John had never met anyone so obsessed with his own talents. And to top it off, the man's attention to his toilette was ridiculous. John wished he knew how Sherlock kept his suits all in mint condition when the kitchen looked like an exploded alchemist's workshop. And by the amount of product in his hair, John would have said the detective was gay if he didn't know better.
But most importantly, Sherlock didn't care what others thought. He'd said as much, but his actions spoke louder. 'Proper social behavior' didn't really hit his radar, unless he was trying to get something. And when John had asked him about it, he appeared more concerned with the fact that John was concerned than with the fallout of his reputation.
Well, maybe he cared a little. The 'idiot' population's opinion didn't matter, of course, but John's did. And maybe Lestrade's. John had never seen Sherlock so upset because of another person as when Lestrade came to warn them of his impending arrest. Why had he gone from being terrified that they thought him a mass murderer to practically begging John to proclaim it through the streets?
Why did he tell John to tell everyone the lie? He was smart enough to know that John would see through it. The emotions were real though. John had seen Sherlock pretend to cry enough times to know when he was faking. So why did Sherlock hide the truth, whatever it was, from John? The entire conversation was so out of character it made John nauseous to even think about it.
Why, Sherlock? The reason's he'd given in his 'note' were preposterous, of course. John had seen Sherlock deduce too many things, too many times, to believe that it was all a show. He knew Sherlock. And Sherlock was for real. As he'd said before, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.
It was just wrong. Even if Sherlock wanted to commit suicide, he wouldn't have just jumped off of Barts. He wouldn't have overdosed on drugs, either. He had promised John, really promised, never to touch the vile things again. And John believed him. No, if Sherlock was going to commit suicide, he'd do it as dramatically as possible. Jump off the tower of London in front of the Queen, shoot himself on live TV, light himself on fire to protest Anderson's stupidity, run himself through with an harpoon for an experiment or something. He wouldn't just fall off a hospital in front of no one but John. Too boring, as he would have said. He was Mr. Punchline, for chrissakes. If he couldn't outlive God, he would find a way to still have the last word in his death.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. John picked himself up off the cold bench. Time for a tactical retreat. He couldn't fight this battle. Not alone. Not without... him. He'd already packed up, left the flat a several days ago. John couldn't stand 221b anymore, not alone, not with reminders everywhere of what had been. He might have stayed, redecorated, for Mrs. Hudson's sake, but Mycroft wouldn't let anyone touch Sherlock's possessions, for some weird reason. John would have called it sentiment, but he knew better with Mycroft.
He was limping badly by the time he rounded the corner. Damn. His leg had been acting up ever since Sherlock's death, but never this bad. He had mostly ignored it, kept a brave face and a strong stride, soldiering through the pain and the grief. But this time, it wasn't going to be ignored. Hopefully it would go away if he moved on and picked up a hobby like skiing or skydiving to get his adrenaline rush. He didn't want to think about what he'd do if that didn't work. There weren't any cabs in sight, so John sat down on another bench to wait for one. He didn't notice the homeless man standing next to him until he spoke.
"Bit o' change, sir?"
"Sorry, no." Seeing the elderly scruffy man made John think about different times, the homeless network that Sherlock had so carefully maintained, the cases their information had helped solve...
"Oy! Aren't you that doctor chap that used to hang around the psychopath?" the unshaven, slightly foul-smelling man asked, waving a stack of tabloids that he had been selling.
John abruptly stood up, eyes flashing.
"He wasn't a psychopath, he was a well-intentioned, often misunderstood friend," he said quietly, dangerously.
The hunchbacked man hadn't heard him, apparently, and continued with his diatribe. "Right weirdo he was. Heartless bastard too, from what I heard. Makin' up stuff just to make him look good, getting off by killin' people…"
John wanted nothing more than to make the man stop, stop spewing the lies that just might have pushed Sherlock to despair.
"I believe you have Sherlock Holmes confused with Jim Moriarty." Last warning.
"Why'd ya stick around, doc? He couldn't have actually cared for you, the sociopathic freak," the filthy white beard twitched in a mocking smile.
John didn't believe in punching people weaker than himself. Usually, this category included girls, the elderly, the weak, the homeless.
John really didn't care about ethics right now.
He didn't notice the slow smile that grew beneath the broken nose of the ragged man as he stormed away, limp gone.
Later, he did notice the scribbled note on a grimy sheet of paper that hadn't been in his jacket pocket before.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe that he died for a reason, one that had nothing to do with the tabloids. Don't give up the fight. Proverbs 24:16.
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End note: I've had suicidal friends... nothing is harder than to watch someone you care about hurt themselves. If you're struggling with this issue, or know someone who is, please get help as soon as possible. People really care and they can really help.