Warnings: Language, suicidal thoughts.
Disclaimer: Do not own. I'm not quite that awesome.
Before Sherlock
He opened his eyes to darkness and sighed. No point in getting up, not really. Today would be just as terrible as yesterday—Mark and Tim and Leon and Nat would all still be dead, and he would still be alone in this bloody flat with a destroyed shoulder and a fucking limp.
He sat up anyway, started his morning 'routine,' which was a bit… darker... than it had been before Afghanistan. He pulled his gun from the draw, methodically ran his fingers over the cool metal, checked that it was loaded. Placed the barrel to his chin, considered, slid it up to his temple.
Maybe today he could do it.
Not like he had anything to live for anyway. Friends dead, parents dead, sister—as good as dead, really.
His phone chirped.
Reminder: Appt 10am Elle.
He ground his teeth. He should talk to his shrink, that was what she was here for, a requirement for invalided soldiers. He wondered what she'd do if he told her he held a loaded gun to his head every morning. And night. And sometimes in the afternoon.
Set him up with a suicide watch, that's what she'd do.
He sighed, dropped the gun to his lap, lay back down. Hissed when he put too much pressure on his shoulder. He couldn't be bothered.