Sherlock sat down on his bed with a sigh. He wasn't going to let this all get to him, so he cleared his mind and took out a book to read. He was going to pretend like nothing was wrong. Then he'd get some sleep, sober up, and start getting busy tomorrow.
He made a mental note to never take the drug he had taken this morning again. It made him too emotional for his liking. He didn't remember what it was called though, and John had the list. He frowned and set his book back down, not in the mood to read. He heard movement outside and looked at the door.
John was walking into the kitchen, he sat down on the counter and put his face in his hands, choking back his sobs. He felt pathetic. He really wanted to just have a life that was happy, where Sherlock wouldn't mess with his emotions and kill him inside.
John wanted to be happy with Sherlock, but that would never happen. He was at least glad that Sherlock didn't go off and cheat on him and just got high. He didn't think he would be able to live if Sherlock had other people that he kissed in his life. John laid down on the counter, closing his eyes. It wasn't that comfortable, but whatever.
Sherlock could hear John outside and he got angry. What was he doing out there?! He hoped he wouldn't try and apologise or whatever. Maybe he was trying to guilt trip Sherlock into apologising, crying outside his room to make him feel bad. That shit killed him. He wasn't going to let John make him feel bad anymore. He told himself that when he sobered up, he'd break up with John.
John wiped all his tears away. He stopped crying after awhile and sat back up. He opened the cutlery drawer and took out a knife, then ran upstairs. He closed and locked his door again. He was sure Sherlock was going to think the worst. Honestly, suicide didn't seem that bad right now.
He put the knife on his bed and looked out the window at all the people just minding their own business, not caring about anyone else walking near them. He wanted to go out there and never return. Sherlock was giving him so much stress. That wasn't healthy. He hoped one day he'd fall dead while in an argument with Sherlock, and he'd freak out and realise John just died because all the stress that was his fault gave him a heart attack or something.
Then Sherlock would probably go back to drugs, but it wouldn't be John's problem. He wouldn't even care, since he couldn't anyways. He would be dead, and free from Sherlock.
John closed his eyes tightly, then looked over to his spare first aid kit. He opened it up. There was nothing to fix broken hearts. He took out a container of pills and sat up. They seemed like enough. He popped it open and spilled what was inside it into his mouth. He started to feel sort of woozy.
John sat up and clumsily made his way his bedside table. There was a bottle of painkillers.
He picked up the bottle, but he fell over before he could use them. He hit his head on the corner of the table when he fell. John yelled instinctively, and put a hand on his head. He blinked a few times, then blacked out.
Sherlock heard John's yell and got worried. He sat up suddenly and got off the bed, running upstairs. He knocked on the door.
“John, are you okay?” He asked, knocking hysterically. “John!” He didn't get an answer, so he picked the lock and walked in. He started crying when he saw John laying there. He called an ambulance, pleading with John to stay alive.
The ambulance came a few minutes later and John was brought to the hospital. They saved him and Sherlock apologised to him about everything, sobbing into his shirt. John pat Sherlock's back and coughed, smiling a bit.