Help... please

Most of the time I never know what to do with my life. Most of the time I just see how every day goes. Most of the time I think about trying to kill myself. But there is one thing that stops me doing all of this. Sherlock. That annoying, fantastic, idiotic, brilliant man that stops me every time.

I didn’t start trying to kill myself for no reason, it all started when me and Sherlock had that showdown (if you can even call it that) with Moriarty. He brought back all the memories. I hate him, he made me like this, every night, I have dreams that show me killing him over and over, and with every technique I have ever learnt from the army, while Sherlock watches on with a smug expression on his face.

I will do that someday, I know I will, it’s just the case in finding him. As I said the only thing that keeps me every day from killing myself is Sherlock, with his high cheekbones, turned up collar and those shirts that are way to tight, I swear he does it on purpose. Sherlock, he talks me out of it. Shows me what I will miss if I just end it now. Most of all I will miss him, Mrs Hudson, the thrill of running around London catching criminals that need to be put away, but most of all him.

So now, I’m writing this, in my notebook, for whoever finds it and reads it, that I can’t win the constant struggle with my brain, my heart, my whole body, to keep fighting through a life that is damaged because of my past. There are even some things that I haven’t told Sherlock about myself and I don’t really think I want him to know, the memories are too painful for another person it bear.

Whoever reads this, read the whole note book it does show some pretty good memories. But please tell Sherlock I love him and tell him not to do anything stupid when I’m gone.

I close the note book with more force than that’s necessary and pick up my gun. My hand starts shaking and its not due to the tremor, its pure anger, fear, betrayal, hurt because of the stupid excuse of my life. To stop myself reliving the memories I think of Sherlock, my boyfriend, the consulting detective that believes her has no heart for anybody but me.

I just can’t do this, the memories bare too much. I decide I don’t want to use the gun; the blood will be too difficult for Mrs Hudson to clean up, even in the brink of committing suicide I just think about others, I’m so stupid.

I walk into the bathroom and pick up the pills that were given to Sherlock months back, the bottles still full so I walk into my bedroom; it smells like Sherlock, I feel like he’s here with me, comforting me. The bottle that holds the pills seems to look at me in disgusted as to what I’m about to do, I don’t care. I pop the cap off and pour all the pills onto the bed.

I swallow one dry and feel myself starting to relax because I know this is all going to be over soon. I take about seven more and start to feel myself going under, being surrounding by the darkness that I so much crave. The whole bottles empty now, the pills swimming around in my stomach dissolving into my blood stream. It feels good, amazing even. I know this is the last minute I can think of Sherlock, our first case, to out first kiss. The first time we told people about us, the first time he fell asleep in my arms. This all come back to me at once and in my last seconds I hear footsteps on the stairs but I tell myself its to late now. Good.

“Goodbye Sherlock” I whisper.

Just as I pass out the door bangs open.

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I do not own sherlock!