5A.N. Warning: swearing, character death, mention of suicide and boat loads of angst. I'm sorry.
This is part one of this mini story – from the POV of John and the next one is from Sherlock's
Too Late – John
My fingers slowly graze along the barrel of the gun. In two clicks it's loaded and the safety is switched off, it lies on the desk in front of me, screaming at me 'Pick me up, raise me and pull my trigger'. The temptation is so strong; the fingers on my free hand itch to succumb to the demands of this tantalizing, manipulative devil.
It just looks so ... Easy.
Mrs. Hudson went out for the night with a few of her friends from down the road, it took a lot of persuading on my behalf to get her to go. I told her I was fine, I told her I can survive one night without her kind hearted fussing. But ... I suppose that it's in her nature – be the Mother Hen. I wonder if she knows that I'm lying through my teeth; of course I'm not okay. Sherlock's dead and everyone believed that he was a lair, a traitor, a fucking fake. If I hadn't been so gullible, if I didn't leave him, I would've stopped him from falling...
I was too late. I didn't save him.
The papers were having a field day when Sherlock fell off the rooftop. They were all hammering at my door, lurking around like pesky vultures on the street waiting for me to give them a quote, they bombarded my emails with "we-should-meet-up" and "I'm-sorry-for-your-loss-but-could-we-get-an-exclusive". It's sick. My best friend is dead and they fucking want an exclusive so that they can buy a bloody house in the Maldives. No-fucking-thank you. Six months on and they still want that interview, the majority of them gave up and left but for the some that still remain loiter around on the street sometimes. I started to notice their little routine, their little plan; conveniently wait for me to leave the flat, and coincidently bump into me when I went to work, or go out to get the shopping. But the only thing that they'll get from me is a 'piss off' and a 'shove it up your arse' (and many other things, but I'll leave that out).
Obviously, they didn't make life any easier for me, but neither did the people around me that I called my friends and family. Sarah gave me an absence of grievance and told me to take as much time off as I needed – which means "don't come until I say you can" I'm not stupid. But it only means that I've got a queer, quiet, empty flat to greet me every day and a skull on the mantelpiece to keep me company for main part of the day. Mrs. Hudson babies me, endlessly, though I can see that it's a kind gesture but I do still want to be able to actually do something for myself. Molly comes by every other day or so, being her overly cheerful self and trying her very hardest to make me feel better – which does include her really bad jokes. She teams up with Mrs. Hudson sometimes and they out rightly refuse for me to do anything myself, and they act cautiously, like I'm going break like a china plate. Greg comes round occasionally to check that I'm fine too, sometimes with a 6-pack of lager or beer. Hurray, drinking problems and haunting memories away, my favourite (!) Like that has done anyone any good in the past. Harriet calls me up a few times a week, friendly chatter but that is about it. They don't last any longer than five minutes. It's like I can't live my own life anymore without consulting anybody about it first. I think that the only person that has done me any good in this last half year is Mycroft, and all that he has done is left me at peace. No more abductions, no more unexpected visits and certainly no more childish power play games. Come to think of it ... He has done jack-shit. Nothing. Nada.
So, overall, I'm not happy. I don't tell anybody that I'm not, I guess I'm not that sort of person that openly talks about their feelings. I'm very British in that way.
Life has turned positively sour for me, it mocks me. It throws lemons and heaps of horse shit at me every single bloody day, just because it can.
No matter what anybody says, Sherlock made my life better. He gave me the chance to live again when I thought it was over, we had a few laughs, run around London chasing cars, and we banged up criminals behind bars at least twice a week. If someone asked me, I would openly admit to them that life heart-pounding, adrenaline rushed, exciting, fun, better with him. Not a day goes by when I don't think about it, and miss it. Miss him.
Everywhere and anywhere I go I am constantly reminded of him. The small Chinese take-away after we solved the murderous cabbie driver case. The end of Sawyer Street in Belgravia where Sherlock literally asked me to punch him in the face. Bart's... I could name a thousand places in London and I could tell you how each and every single one of those places reminds me of him.
It's safe to say that the flat hasn't changed a bit; there's still the general clutter of stray papers, books and files lying around, the horrific mess of Sherlock's working desk/the kitchen table, his unfinished experiments and, of course, the spray painted smiley face (I think it's become a part of the Baker Street Family). Mrs. Hudson does her best to tidy it up but it's becoming an extremely hard task to accomplish – like as soon as you tidy one part of the flat, you uncover something else that has to be cleaned.
"It's like it doesn't want to be cleaned." She always complains.
The flat reeks of him as well; the subtle scent of expensive aftershave, the faint smell of chemicals from old experiments and cigarettes. I suppose the latter was my fault – on days when at my lowest, I light up one or two of his favourite brand. I just let the flame burn and eat away at the tar and chemicals while it fills the room with that smell. They have become like scented candles to me.
Sitting in the semi-darkness, hearing the sirens blare off in the distance and leek through the windowsills, with a fully loaded hand gun in arms reach does get you thinking about what you have done, what you're leaving behind, who you are going to hurt and what possible future you could've had (I never saw one without him in it).
I shake my head before picking up a scrap piece of paper, a pen, and write a small note in an untidy scrawl; I just wanted to say 'hello'.
I throw the pen down somewhere and grasp the pistol with a firm grip, raise it, and push it hard against my left temple. The quicker that this is over, the better – which is why I didn't opt for pills and alcohol, the thought of me dying on my own vomit sounded unappealing to me. My eyes flutter shut, a lone tear trails down my face like a small running river. I can taste a metallic taste in my mouth – blood. I must've bitten the inside of my cheek too hard.
John, don't make this any harder. I mentally tell myself. Relax.
Well... Here goes nothing.
I still believe in Sherlock Holmes.
A.N. Hey I hope that wasn't too bad. There will be another chapter after this, like I said previously, from Sherlock's POV after this point.
Any grammar, punctuation, continuity mistakes let me know. And constructive criticism is welcome.