Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles - A Johnlock Story

Sadness Ends With a Rope

AN: These next six chapters will be quite short, only about 1000 words each,  and depict very graphic scenes and thoughts of suicide, reader discretion is advised, these five chapters will be almost exclusively in Flashback, but it is Sherlock relaying these scenes to John. 

Third Person

Sherlock sat in the bathtub, though the water had run cold long ago. He sat, deathly quiet, though not actually dead. Not physically at least, but his mind, his mind was long dead, dead with Victor, gone, gone with his father. The water had been hot, scalding hot, but that was long ago.

It wasn't fair, he thought, to be robbed of your happiness and innocence so young. Mycroft was to be coming home for the weekend, and Sherlock didn't want his corpse to rot, it would honestly be too much on an inconvenience. He had already planned out what was to happen. He stepped out of the freezing water, wrapping himself in his towel. Sherlock sighed, and dressed for what he believed would be the last time.

Staring at himself in the mirror, he could barely recognize himself. his face was gaunt and worn, his eyes, lifeless pits. Bruises no longer trailed his arms, but he still felt them, whispering to him in the wind. The ghosts of his fathers words ever present in his mind. "Filthy f*ggot, you'll go to hell, you dirty sinner. You deserve death, you deserve this."

The last words echoed in his mind, repeating themselves until he could no longer make sense of them. Perhaps the didn't make sense in the first place, he couldn't remember. He deserved this, he reminded himself, over and over again. His bedroom was frigid, but then again, everything was so cold. He'd lost so much weight that he was unable to maintain body heat.

He was also so cold, so very cold. The tips of his fingers

The noose lay on his bed, already made. All he had to do was hang it, and then kick the chair out from under him. And then it would all be over. Tears began streaking down his cheeks, he wanted it so badly. He was so ready to die, to feel the sweet release of death. His hands shook as he slipped the noose so that it was hanging from the closet bar. Sherlock took out the note he'd written, and set it on the bed.

But Death is welcoming,

he offers a freedom,

a timeless place.

no more strife,

no emotions,

no more mortality.

Luck to those he picks. -SH

He climbed up on the chair, slipping the noose around his neck. It would be five minutes until Mycroft, ten until his brother found him. With one last gulp of air, he kicked the chair out from under him. The darkness closed in, swallowing him whole. Peace, at last, no more haunting ghost words, or bruises. No more, he realized in relief as he was washed over in the darkness.

What he did not know, was that Mycroft would get home three minutes early, and only take three more to find him. The human brain can only live without oxygen for three minutes, resuscitation is possible for a bit longer.

What Sherlock did not know was that he'd shook so much while making the noose, that it had been defective. What he did not know was that Mycroft had learned CPR. What Sherlock did not know, was the inhuman screams that erupted from his brother, how he screamed at their mother to call an ambulance, how he'd attempted revival until he was successful, and kept him alive until the paramedics arrived. What he did know when he woke up, was that he wasn't supposed to be alive.

Sherlock's POV

Intense pain washed over me before I' d even registered that I was still alive. Why was alive? I calculated the precise time Mycroft would get home, which would've left far enough time for me to die. Why was I here? I wasn't supposed to live, no, I CAN'T live. I can't live, I don't deserve too, I can't, I can't ,I can't.

I opened my eyes to the blindingly bright, white hospital room.

Mycroft was sitting in the seat next to my bed, his arms and head resting next to my arm. His head jerked up as he realized I was awake. "You're awake, you're alive," he whispered, his hair sticking up in random places and his glasses were askew. His eyes were red and raw from crying. "Why am I alive?" I whispered, my throat scratchy from disuse, and from the way the noose had crushed it. His face fell, and he looked down.

" I found you Sherlock, hanging from the closet. Why did you do this?" He asked, choking up. One part of me felt guilty, he was only 25 after all. The other part, the larger part, however was furious. "Why did you save me?!" I asked, angrily. He shook his head, lips pursed, tears filling his eyes.

He sighed shakily, running a hand through his reddish brown waves. "Because you're my little brother Sherlock. I love you, your loss would break my heart." He answered after a moment. He pulled out a package of cigarettes, and lit one. I watched him as he took a drag, God, I'd kill for one right now. "You could've talked to me, brother mine, I would do anything to help you. I would drop everything and help you, and I always will." I looked away from his sad, puppy like gaze.

"Oh, because you did that before," He flinched at my words. I regretted the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. In truth, he'd done everything he'd been capable of before Father had been arrested. He'd just been a kid too. But he was elder, and I was still a kid.

"Sherlock, the doctors and I have decided that it would be best for you to come live with me for at least a little while," Mycroft didn't dare look at me, fearing my reaction. I turned the idea over in my head, toying with it. I slumped back against the bed, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. "Thank you," I whispered. I would get out of there, out of that house that whispered it's ghost words at me, reminding me of everything, every beating, every verbal insult, every lash of his belt.

"What?" He asked, clearly shocked. "Thank you," I said, a bit louder this time. Mycroft stared at me for a moment, only needing that long to deduce my reasons. "You are very welcome, dear brother," he said after another moment. He'd gotten out for the same reasons, but mother had always insisted that I live with her.

He'd wanted to take me with him when he initially went to University, and Father beat him for even suggesting it. He'd come into my room that night, telling me he was leaving, and that could go with him. I would've, except that Father would've found us, and then, then he would've killed us.

Mycroft and I sat in silence, tears of relief streaming down my face, I was free, free of that place. It no longer chained me to my past, I was unbound from those ghosts.