John opens the door to leave. Again. Sherlock stares at his shadow, trying to keep conciousness. The blood pours from the wound on his forehead. John hit him again. John hit him hard. Sherlock hears John's car pull out onto the pavement. Sherlock pulls himself up and stumbles into the bathroom. The mirror is broken. It happened when John threw him into it. Sherlock looks into the shattered remains of his face is the mirror. The metaphor is almost too perfect. He looks into the mirror and sees what he's supposed to. A broken man.

He cleans off his head wound and takes the pills. John's anger pills. Sherlock's death pills. He doesn't understand why the world won't let him go. Why he can't fall under the hand of the man he loves. Of the man who once loved him. Sherlock lays down on his bed. He's scared what might happen when John got home. It was never good when John was like this.

John's rage had gotten out of hand. It came out of nowhere, and Sherlock was caught in the crossfire. It started out verbal, then came the bruises. He never saw it coming.

John storms through the door and Sherlock jolts awake. He slipped out so fast. And he was bleeding again. This one hurt so much, so much more than others. John seems calm, but Sherlock knows better. John sits in his chair, which has been tore apart. Sherlock walks out and stands in the doorway. John gives him a look of dispair.

"I'm dying."

The words hit Sherlock harder than John could ever. 

"We're all dying." 

He sayd, disconnected. Sherlock, that it.

"It's brain cancer."

No. No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no.


"That's why I've been hitti-"


"I'm sorry I never told you."

Sherlock runs out. No no no no no no no noooonononononoon.

This can't happen. Not to him, not to John.

But it is. And it won't end this way.

To be continued.

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