Ok, another chapter with extra warning, this time for a rather serious suicide attempt so don't read unless your safe.

John doesn't bleed out. He flits in and out of sleep for a few hours before he finally realises that this hasn't brought the end just infinitely more pain. It doesn't matter though. One way or another, this has to stop, he can't take it anymore. There really is no point in trying to protect Sherlock any longer. There is nothing left of the John Watson who Sherlock needed and maybe even cared for. He can't follow him on cases, can't run around London, there's nothing that says he'll ever run again. He has no job so he can't pay the rent, and with the constant tiredness, the pain and the grey swirl in his mind he's not even helping out around the flat. He doesn't take care of Sherlock any longer and he hates himself for it but he simply can't bring himself to move and act, everything seems so useless. No John Watson is already dead, nothing left now but a cripple, an impediment and worst of all a danger to others.

It is excruciating to get himself out of bed. His chest and leg have been hurting enough recently but now the area in-between feels like it's on fire. Every time he moves pain shoots up his spine making him want to stop, to curl up and disappear, but there is only one way that he is going to make that happen. He reaches over for his painkillers which have been left on the stand beside him and dry swallows two.

He tears himself from sticky sheets, slowly, slowly getting up to lean against the desk taking slow tortured breaths. He doesn't dare to try to sit, it would hurt too much. He pulls out pen and paper and tries to scribble a note. Only fair to say goodbye.

Sherlock,

I'm sorry he broke me. I'm sorry I wasn't stronger. You gave several wonderful extra years. I'm sure this would have happened back then if it hadn't been for you. I'm no use to you any longer, I don't want to stay to watch you grow to hate me for being an impediment. Instead I go, remembering how you cared for me in these last weeks. Thank you. You are the best friend anyone could hope for, the best man I have ever met. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

To everyone else who cares,

You'll be safe now.

John Watson

The note is hard to write. He has to use his right hand and it comes out as a clumsy squiggle but it will have to do. He doesn't add a title, he doesn't feel like a doctor or a Captain any longer. He is nothing now, but a tool in ensuring the safety of all those people who have been wonderful enough to be kind to him throughout his life.

Getting down to his medical kit to find a scalpel is hopelessly hard but he manages it eventually. He brings out a few extra tools as well, he'll need to get his cast off. One does not slit ones writs through a cast and he doesn't want any risk that his efforts will be seen as not good enough, not staged well enough. Cutting it open brings more pain. One really isn't supposed to cut a cast off when the bones have barely started healing. The surgical cuts in his hand haven't even had the chance to seal up yet. Still out of all the things he's been through this doesn't even rank close to the most painful experience in his life and he cuts away until the cast falls off.

The painkillers are starting to kick in somewhat as he pulls on a pair of boxers with effort and wraps his bathrobe around himself and then retrieves the rest of the bottle. Doing everything one handed makes him feel even more clumsy now that his left hand is out of the cast.

He steels himself for the trip down the stairs and it's with terror that he hears Sherlock moving around in the living room as he gets down. He moves as fast and as silently as he can but unfortunately the one impedes the other and pushing himself he let's out an involuntary cry as he stumbles toward the bathroom.

'John?' comes Sherlock's concerned voice from the livingroom.

'Just having a wash, I'm disgusting. Haven't showered in forever.' John grinds out as he all but throws himself into the bathroom. He collapses on the side of the bathtub without thinking and pain flares up from his bottom making him gasp and collapse onto the floor striking his injured knee and he falls to the side lying gritting his teeth against the pain. Oh yes, this is the right choice alright he thinks as white spots dance before his eyes.

There is a soft knock on the door and John already knows who it is and why. 'John, can I come in, you haven't showered without help in forever, are you really up for it?' Sherlock sounds genuinely concerned, why can't he be his usual flippant self in these last moments, just make it that bit easier.

'I'll have a bath, I can keep the cast out and I'll be sitting down, it'll be fine.' John tries.

'John why are you on the floor?'

Of course he would notice, he wold never not notice something like that. 'Taking my clothes off and turning the taps on, it's easier this way. Please Sherlock just let me try this on my own. I need this.' He pleads and it is only the fact that he already hates himself with every fibre of his body that allows him to not break down in the face of having to lie to his best friend as he pushes himself up and turns the taps of the bath. 'Can't you just make some tea and toast in the mean time, I'm starving.' Give Sherlock something to do, something noisy to distract him, 'I'll call if I need you.'

And that does it Sherlock hesitantly relents. 'Ok, I'll be just in the kitchen, call if you need my help.' He says and goes into the kitchen to see if Mrs Hudson has bought them any bread.

In the meantime as the bath fills John puts the bottle of painkillers on the sink and fills his tootbrush mug with water. He had meant to get some milk to help the pills stay down but this will have to do. He swallows them two at a time until the bottle is nearly empty. Then he gets the scalpel out ripping the packaging with his teeth as he only has one hand. It gives him a small cut across his lip but he barely even notices as he deposits it on the side of the bathtub. He brings out the folded sheet of photo shopped pictures and stares at it for a moment, it is his motivation. Especially the picture of little Johnny, he has to recreate that scene now.

No knife visible right arm resting on the side of the tub not in the water which would make for better blood flow. He really wants to keep his boxers on but Johnny is naked so he doesn't dare. Instead he slips his bathrobe off and lets them drop to the floor before he slips into the warm water. It stings but this time when he sits he is prepared for the pain and he has his teeth already clamped shut. It is hard to lower himself down with only one good hand but the water cushions him slightly and he leans back breathing shallowly.

He looks down at his broken hand helplessly, how on earth is he going to hold the scalpel in it to make the cuts to his left arm? He knows it's not going to happen. Instead he places the scalpel between his teeth and hold it as still as he can as he presses his right arm against the blade trying to blindly mimic the cuts on Johnny's arm. It works reasonably well but the cuts are not as deep as he would have liked to accomplish his goal. As a doctor he knows for best effect he should cut from wrist to elbow but that's not what had been in the picture so he makes three gashes across the bottom of his arm and then grips the scalpel with his now shaking right hand.

It doesn't hurt as much as it ought to and John knows that is because of the painkillers. Now for his left arm, it is easier and he achieves three neat deep gashes that immediately start to release a crimson flow of blood into the bath. It's an uncertain method though and for a little extra measure John plunges the scalpel deep into his thigh before releasing it into the bath and pulling his right hand out again to rest on the side of the tub. It bleeds more freely now that it is encouraged by the warm water and John is satisfied with the effect. He leans his head back and closes his eyes waiting for release.

Sorry for the cliff-hanger, adding Sherlock to the rescue in the same chapter would have made it too long in comparison to the rest of the story.