"It Hurts, Sherlock."

A Sherlock BBC fanfiction. It's old, it's been perhaps a year since I wrote it. Please comment and give me constructive criticism, praise, hate, whatever, please give your honest opinion. This is what might have happened had John not picked himself up and moved on after Reichenbach. I hope you enjoy it, though it is a bit of a downer.
might be triggering

Chapter 1

The First and Last Chapter

He's depressed. Again. But that's really nothing new. He's been depressed for nearly two years now with almost no reprieve. And he's tried everything. Antidepressants, psychiatrists, therapy. Nothing works. Maybe - no, definitely - it would help if he moved out of the flat. Got away from the ghost he can always catch lingering in his peripheral vision. But he can't. He's worse than Sherlock with his patches. He's can't quit the memories, even though they tear his brain apart every morning when he opens his eyes.
Everything belongs to the same ghost. The smiley face on the wall that Sherlock used for target practice every time he was bored. Or frustrated. Or being forced to go cold turkey. The fridge, empty now without the severed heads and limbs.The dining table for once cleared of experiments and suitable for eating on. The violin leaning against the wall, silent and untouched in its case. Just above it, the deer-stalking cap on its hook. The couch and armchair that Sherlock could rarely have been bothered to get out of and that John had not sat in since...since The Fall.
It was almost funny how all of his pain and sorrow could be compressed into those last few seconds, those two words. The Fall. His therapists had all wanted him to call the event something more closely related to Sherlock. Sherlock's Fall and Sherlock's Death were among the most commonly suggested. One had recommended Sherlock's Deception, saying that it would help John cope with the "fact" that everything about Sherlock had been a lie. Later, sitting in Lestrade's office, John found out he'd broken the man's nose. And gotten a restraining order filed against himself.
That had been a year and a half and the last of five psychiatrists ago. John had given up on fixing himself. In reality, the psychiatrists had just made it worse by forcing him to accept over and over again that Sherlock was gone and that he, John Watson, had been left all alone again.
There was no point to living without Sherlock. It had taken John the better part of two years to realize this, but now that he realized it, he knew it was true. Everything was pointless. Getting up, eating, going to work, coming home, eating, going to bed. Except usually minus the eating. It wasn't that he had an eating disorder, just that he didn't feel much like eating. Didn't feel that it, much like his lonely, pathetic life, had any point to it. He ate when he absolutely needed to and the spent the rest of his time trying not to think about not letting himself think about Sherlock, his cold fingers resting listlessly on the laptop's keyboard.
Mrs. Hudson came in every evening with tea; she would take away the laptop and place the tray on John's lap, pat his cheek and say, "cheer up, dear. Sherlock wouldn't want you to mope." And John would muster up as much conviction as possible into his eyes and voice and say, "you know what, Mrs. Hudson? You're absolutely right." Then he would make as if to drink the tea, smiling just to cheer her up. Once she leaves, however, the smile falls and the tea goes down the drain.
Today, as he gets up and pours the steaming liquid into the sink, he thinks how ridiculous it is that he doesn't have the energy to drink the stuff, but somehow finds it less arduous to get up and walk to the kitchen to throw it away. And he thinks that Mrs. Hudson really is right. Sherlock would be absolutely disgusted by his melancholic behavior. However, John counters with a dry chuckle, Sherlock isn't around anymore to berate him for it, and since he isn't, John sees no point in pretending to be happy. It drains him to pretend to Mrs. Hudson for a few minutes every day, and he isn't going to be exhausted by pretending to himself when he knows the truth.
That he's falling apart.
Today's the day.
He finishes with the tea and goes to the window. If someone is out there, someone he knows, he won't go through with it. He'll invite them in and have a nice chat and forget all about the gun and bullet stored in the top of drawer of his dresser.
Only strangers occupy the street.
John is half-relieved and half-disappointed. Relieved because no he can get right down to it, not have to hurt any more. Disappointed because it would have been nice to see one more friendly face before he goes.
He feels numb as he walks into the bedroom and slides the drawer open and picks up the gun, letting his soldier sub-conscious take over as guilt stabs through him. He hopes this won't hurt Molly and Lestrade too much. Mycroft probably won't car. And dear Mrs. Hudson...at least she won't be the one to find him. He'd made sure of that by telling her yesterday that he'd accidentally locked himself out of the flat. As expected, she'd given him her key and forgotten to ask for it back. She'd have to call the police to get the door open, and hopefully they'd keep her far away from the scene.
He snaps back to reality, where his soldier self has quickly, expertly loaded the gun. Brilliant. He wanders back into the living room, rips a sheet of paper from a notebook, and scribbles down a note that is a dismal failure in comparison to Sherlock's. But it takes care of what it needs to.
To Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft - I'm sorry.
To Harry - I love you. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.
Also to Lestrade - Please don't tell Mrs. Hudson. Tell her it was an accident. If you can't or won't, then please tell her I'm sorry and that she has my love.
He checks that the door is locked and that he has both keys. It is. He does. He sits down and puts the muzzle of the gun into his mouth, only now aware that his body is trembling violently. His finger shakes on the curve of the trigger.
The metal is cold and greasy against his tongue. A foul taste fills his mouth.
"Oh God," he moans around the gun, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands shaking uncontrollably. The muzzle clicks against his teeth. "Jesus..." He actually hopes that some greater deity can hear him now, can stop him from doing this.
‘Take the gun out of your mouth, John,’ he thinks, for some reason, in Sherlock's voice. He almost does, almost obeys, when another wave of pain slams into him. He moans and lets his head fall back against the chair.
"It hurts, Sherlock," he cries around the gun to someone who isn't there. "It hurts, it hurts..." He wraps both hands around the gun lets himself slip to the floor, leaning against the chair for support. A squeeze of the trigger and all of his pain will vanish.
So why is it so hard?
A tear slips down his cheek, and he makes a strangled sort of pleading sound in his throat. In one jerky motion the gun is out of his mouth and pressed to where his jaw meets up with his neck.
"I'm sorry..." he whispers, crying freely now, and he feels angry and desperate and alone, and his voice swells to a shout. "I'm sorry, Sherlock!" And before he can let himself think his way out of it, out of this whole damned mess, he jams the gun back into his mouth and pulls the trigger.
There is a faint click. A bang. John's entire body jerks. Blood and gray matter spray across the chair.
"One day we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

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