Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, Moffat or any of his evil creations.

If suicide triggers something in you, please do not read.

"I do."

"You may now kiss the bride."

At that clue the crowd started cheering loudly, a few with tears in their eyes. This was the moment they had all been waiting for:

John's and Mary's wedding.

Well maybe all except Sherlock, who was now taking his leave. He had not been anxiously awaiting this wedding, rather the opposite. This was more of a funeral to him, a funeral of whom? Of John's intelligence, their friendship but also of Sherlock's love, which was a thing he could not keep if he wanted to stay alive.

He took one last glance at the happy duo that was flooded with compliments and congratulations and even got a glance at Lestrade who probably praised John for finally getting over the bastard Sherlock was.

This was enough for Sherlock to finally let go and leave. Didn't these morons see? This was not the place John should be in, he should be with his detective. Warm and cuddled up on the sofa. Or maybe at Angelo's. But definitely not here.

Sherlock stormed off to his motorbike with a dangerous countenance on his face. He hastily searched his pockets for the key, but came across something else. Taking it out of his pocket, he remembered. A little syringe was situated in his hand, tiny and innocent.

Well, why not? There was no John left to nag on his conscience or a Mycroft either. Right when Sherlock wanted to tell him that he had distanced himself from John, Mycroft decided to die in an accident. Leaving him all to himself again.

So, what was there to lose? He didn't bother for his health anymore, had never done. And if John still worried about him or felt anything for him, then let him suffer. Sherlock didn't care.

He placed the syringe on his arm and just pulled, the liquid reaching his already worn-out system. Freedom!

He jumped on his motor-bike, having finally found the key. Sherlock felt so relieved. All the years he had had to hold back, the cravings sometimes too hard to bear. Now it was all over. Now he was complete.

He turned on the engines, not a single thought spent on what act he had just performed. Rashly he drove onto the road, simply ignoring other cars and scratching their doors or slightly bumping into them. Nothing really mattered.

And so he went on, leaving many irritated and enraged drivers on the way. Some cars even had to stop and it wasn't before long that the radio streamed that a complete maniac made the motorway a dangerous road to take.

Until he reached a traffic-jam and stuck between cars couldn't move an inch.

When they bit by bit reached the scene of action, an idea crossed Sherlock's clouded mind. What if he just... made it all stop? It wouldn't be too difficult.

They soon would reach a bridge; the only thing he had to do was drive. Maybe he could take a few others with him?

It would be so easy. No more pain, no more suffering. Just oblivion and nothing, nothing, nothing. It was almost too simple to be true.

Was there anything left of worth in his life? Anything that mattered? There was only one simple answer: no.

This was for John and his stupid Mary, so that they would always remember their wedding day as spoilt. The worst day of their life. How good that sounded.

He hoped that they may have the most wretched life on earth, that they would never be able to have the "joy" of children. Their house would be rotten and their marriage would fall into pieces. And then John would suffer for all that he had done, he should never stop. He deserved it.

Sherlock didn't feel like himself anymore, so light and didn't know what was wrong or right. But it didn't matter. He had never felt this free or relieved in his entire life.

"And I never will feel again. "

So, it was decided then. Death was his only possibility.

The last thing he was ever to see was a woman laughing in a car next to him. How ironic. She wouldn't laugh any further.

This really was the "Highway to Hell".


"John? John! There you are... I have to tell you something, bad, bad news!" said a completely dishevelled woman, with tears almost endlessly streaming off of her face.

If John had been more attentive, he would have seen Mrs. Hudson under the masses of tears and smudged make-up, but John was still too caught up with his wedding, especially with Mary. Damn had she been beautiful.

"Yes, what's up?" said John, who was still not even nearly following the conversation.

"Sherlock..." Now John was all ears. He had been wondering were Sherlock stayed all throughout the day. They may have lost touch in the last years, especially over a certain escapade, but John still cared for Sherlock as he had always done. He still counted Sherlock as his best friend. He cared.

"Yes?"

"He's ... he's dead."

Author's note/s: Please don't kill me!

This is not the real chapter and not how the story really continues. I would laugh right now, but that could only be qualified as inappropriate.

I just collected some inspiration from Moffat and this is how it ended. Feeling like his evil granddaughter right now. (:

I only wanted to write something a little bit psycho and depressing, because I don't have any sort of knowledge in that area. Feel free to suggest on what aspects I could improve.

The REAL next chapter is going to be published very soon, so stay with me if you have not yet unfollowed!

I'm sorry!