Your back was to me as I entered the room. Your arms moving slowly along the strings of your violin as the fading sunlight drifted through your hair. Gently you swayed with the wavering tune. I hesitated for a moment. Standing behind the armchair, I let my eyes linger on you a little longer, giving you a moment more of peace. But as your melody ended, you turned, your blue eyes dim with shadows from the fire.

"I love you, Sherlock," I blurted.

You cocked your head. "...Thank you?"

"I really do, you know." I tried to smile, but couldn't. "I don't think I say that enough."

You paused, then set your violin back in its case. "Why don't you sit. You're pale."

"No."

Startled, you stared at me.

"I can't. I just... I don't want to sit. I want to see you." I gripped the sleeves of my jumper. "I... I just... I wanted to. See you."

"See me?" You shuffled. "Is something wrong?"

I met your eyes and watched you fade into thought. I hadn't fooled myself into thinking I could've hidden anything from you for long, but I hadn't expected you to catch on this quickly. Your eyes glazed over and your lips turned down. Thoughts flashed behind your crystal irises before I could even reply, and I saw the veins in your neck stand out.

"Tell me," You said, taking a cautious step in my direction.

"Don't touch me," I whispered, my voice raspy.

Immediately your face filled with panic. "What have you done, John."

"Nothing," I answered.

"You took something."

"Nothing," I repeated.

"I don't like the way you're sounding."

"Just hear me out."

You studied me carefully, eyes wide and brow tense. Then you took a seat and pointed a finger at mine. "Sit."

I pursed my lips and obeyed, hesitantly sliding into my chair. The barrel of my pistol, cushioned against the small of my back, made me shiver. Your hands folded underneath your chin, but your eyes were dark and circumspect. Desperately I wanted to melt into the shadows behind me, but I remained frozen in my chair, picked apart by your stone gaze.

"Talk." You weaved your fingers. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"What I'm thinking," I murmured, shifting in my chair.

"Yes. Don't close yourself off. You need to talk to me."

I bit my cheek. "I don't know."

The longer I looked at you, the stronger the pull on my throat, and the harder it was to bite back my emotion. My hands trembled with the effort. Why was I here. Why had I even come out here. Why couldn't I have just pulled the trigger quietly, out of the way, before you had a chance to try to talk me out of it. Did I want you to talk me out of it? No. Did I want your reaction? No. Why was I here. Why did I still care.

"John? Focus." You leaned forward. "Talk to me. You need t-"

"Sherlock, I'm tired."

Even with such a simple statement, tears welled up behind my eyes faster than I could blink them away. I hated when I cried; crying always made me feel weak, vulnerable. Crying made me lose my reservations. It eroded my walls until I was left open and exposed, with my eyes raw and swollen. It never made me feel refreshed, like other people had assured me. It was humiliating, and I hated it. But you didn't seem to mind, or care. Your eyes remained on me, still focused and thorough.

"John."

I didn't answer.

"John," You said again.

"What, Sherlock?" I snapped. "What do you want from me. Do you want me to give you some neat little problem for you to fix? Do you want me to give you a puzzle to solve? There isn't one, dammit. There just isn't."

"Alright. Alright." You murmured. "Take a deep breath. You've been ill. If you would rest-"

"No. I'm not resting. I can't rest." I replied, my voice threatening to give way. "I- I- I can't. There are nightmares. There are... things. I just... I can't rest. I can't think. I can't function, Sherlock, and it's all just too much. It's too much."

"I understand, John. You're in pain. I understand."

"No. No, you don't understand. You have no idea how much pain I'm in, Sherlock. It doesn't just hurt. It isn't just there. It's inside me, and it's aching, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"That's not true, John. Stop telling yourself that." You insisted. "I can help you. Lestrade can help you. You can help yourself. It isn't hopeless. There's always something you can do."

"No."

"You can fight this off, John."

"I've tried. I've tried and tried, but I can't, Sherlock, and I'm tired. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of hurting." I leaned onto my elbows and put my head in my hands. "I don't want you to talk me down. I don't want you to tell me I'm wrong."

"Then you're being selfish. You're not thinking straight."

"I'm thinking perfectly straight."

"No, John, listen to me. You're sick. You're detoxing. You're traumatized. What you need right now is to relax and to rest. You don't have to do anything right now. You don't have to decide. You need to rest. Decide later."

"I'm deciding right now," I quavered.

"Just, think, John."

"I am thinking!" I shouted. "I am thinking. I want it to end."

"It will end. In time, it will end."

"I don't have time."

"You have plenty of time."

"I don't want to have time."

"J-"

"I want to die, Sherlock. No. I don't care about time. I don't care about anything. I want this to end. I want to die."

Your eyes flashed. You were stung to silence, your lips parted, breath still. I took a deep breath, steadying my hand, and gripped the handle of my pistol, drawing it out slowly. I held it between my hands and stared at it a long time, turning it over while I searched for more to say. The sight made you flinch.

"I don't want to leave you," I started. "I really don't. I want to stay and to be healthy again. I want to someday stand beside you and not feel inadequate. But the longer I wait for that to happen, the more I realize it never will. I will always be three steps behind you. I will never really belong with you."

"John."

"Stop. Let me finish." I cleared my throat, with a cough just a little short of a whimper. "I try so hard to make myself worth something to you, to hold my own, but it drains me. I'm not meaningful. I'm not special. I'm not like you; I'm not above it all, I'm not brilliant, I'm not clever. I want to help you, but I can't. I want to be worth something, but I'm not. You are. I'm not. Eventually you'll move on to greater things, greater advantages than me. You'll be fine. You'll move on. I need to stop fighting and accept it."

"Stop it, John," You said, "Stop it, right now."

"No, Sherock." I took a breath. "All I am is deadweight to you. I'm more trouble than I'm worth, and I'm done fighting."

My grief was so deep I could feel it on my fingertips. My throat felt like wax, and I stroked the neck of the pistol gently. I knew now. I wanted to die. I was sure of it. I wanted all of this to be overwith. Once it was done, it would be settled. I would be free of pain, and you would be free of me. I wouldn't let myself suffer any further.

But you were still pressing on. "John." You growled, tone dark. "Look at me. You still have time. Give me the pistol, and we can move past this."

"I don't want to move past it, Sherlock."

"You're not lost, John. You're not dying. You still have a fighting chance. There's still tomorrow, there's still next week, there's still years ahead of you. I know you're in pain, but this will only prevent yourself from getting better, permanently. I know you're smart enough to know that. You've just decieved yourself. It's the drugs talking, not you. Stay with me, John. John."

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut and letting the tears spring out. "No, Sherlock. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be like I was before. I don't want to be left empty. I can't be like I was in the ward. I can't do it. I won't do it."

"You won't have to. John." You crept forward, putting a hand on my knee. "That's behind you. That's in the past."

"No, Sherlock, it's not in the past. It's right fucking here. It's right here, staring me in the face every day that I stay here. Every day that I wake up and you're there beside me, there it is. I'm not doing it again, Sherlock."

"What are you talking about?" You stammered.

I looked up at the ceiling, swallowing in gulps of air. "I'm not going to put myself through another fall. I'm not going to let myself disintegrate into blubbering madness. I'm not going to keep living like this just for the hope that one day you'll come back and save me. I can't do it, Sherlock. Because you're not coming, and I'm not going to fool myself anymore."

"You're not making sense."

"You left me, Sherlock. You fucking made me watch you die. And now you're leaving me here to watch it, over and over again. You left me."

"I came back! I'm here now! I'm not going to leave you!"

"I can't trust you, Sherlock! I can't. I-..." I clutched my hands against my chest, afraid the gun would slip through my trembling fingers. "I want to. I want to believe you. I want to get better. I want to feel normal. But I can't. It hurts too much. I-I-I can't go back to the ward. I can't go to Ella, or to Greg, or to anyone. I'm alone. I'm alone, Sherlock. I'll always be alone."

The air was sucked from my lungs. Your face went blank.

"I'm alone, I've always been alone, and I always will be alone. No matter what I do, who I pursue, I will always be alone. I'm alone in my pain, I'm alone in my feelings, I'm alone in my head. I'm alone. There's nowhere for me to go. I don't want to get better, I don't want to go back to being lonely. I hate being here. I hate being lonely, and feeling lonely, and being alone. I want to go. Let me go."

Slowly I regained control of my hands. Your eyes studied mine for the last time.

"Forgive me."

I pressed the cold metal against my throat. Point-blank range. Draw. Pull.