Angst

One day too long

(Johnlock)

*TRIGGER WARNINGS: SUICIDE, DEPRESSION, MENTIONS OF ALCOHOLISM, BLOOD AND GORE, GUNS

PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF IT COULD HARM YOU IN ANY WAY

If you feel suicidal, please call the suicide prevention hotline for your area (United States : 1-800-273-8255) and if you need anyone to talk to, I'm here for you

515 words

Sherlock was standing on the doorstep of 221B with his head against the door when he heard the bang, and the soft thud a second later. His mind raced to find an answer, any answer, besides what he knew had happened. He'd been watching John for far too long to be ignorant of his depression. John had deep circles under his eyes, deeper than ever, which betrayed his insomnia to anyone with half a brain. He took the tube, then a cab, to the same pub each night; he was an alcoholic, and too depressed to bother changing things up. John had never come to Baker Street before. Each day, as Sherlock had watched John from a distance, his chest had tightened, but each day he'd told himself, just one more day.

He'd waited one day too long.

He flung open the door, not bothering to offset the knocker, and flew up the stairs, his coat flapping behind him. As he reached the top, his fears were confirmed; John's body lay lifeless before him, with blood and brain matter pooling around his head, and a shotgun inches from his right hand.

Sherlock let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and ran to the body that had once been his best friend. He dropped to his knees, and cradled John's head in his arms. He felt his eyes sting, and Mycroft's voice echoed in his mind: "Caring is not an advantage, brother mine."

"Shut up, Mycroft!" he screamed, causing the tears in his eyes to begin to fall freely. He rocked back and forth for what seemed like years, long past when ran out of tears, numb and in shock. By the time he stood up, it was night, and he was hungry, thirsty, and needed a bathroom. Ignoring all of this, he looked around the flat. John hadn't been here since Sherlock had faked his death; he'd only come to carry out his own. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to a sheet of paper with significantly less dust than anything else in the room. The note.

He walked over, not daring to breathe, picked up the note, and began to read.

"I'm sorry. These last couple years have been impossible. I loved Sherlock-"

Sherlock let out a small whimper, surprising himself. He steeled himself and continued reading.

"I loved Sherlock. Everyone knew that, I think, besides him and me. I wish I'd told him. I kept telling myself he wasn't dead, that he'd come back. I waited for him, but he never did. If he's not on this earth, then I don't want to be, either.

Again, I'm sorry, but goodbye.

-John"

Sherlock was crying again, but he blinked to clear his vision and stepped back over to the body on the floor. He picked up the gun, and noticed another bullet in the chamber. John always had been prepared. He took a deep breath, placed his finger on the trigger, and aimed the gun at the side of his head. He closed his eyes, squeezed the trigger, and was no more.