Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles - A Johnlock Story

Sadness Ends With a Bullet

Third Person

Sherlock sat on the edge of the cheap bed. Living with Mycroft had worked for a while, but now, two years later, he was at Uni, and alone again. Mycroft had taken a position in the government, needing the insurance to cover for the expenses of all the medications doctors had shoved Sherlock's way. All of the antidepressants and serotonin pills. All of that meant he had to work a lot, not that Sherlock blamed him. He did this, all of this, for him. He'd scaled his way up quite far in the government quite young.

But now, sitting all alone in his University apartment, Sherlock couldn't help but feel lost. The hanging hadn't worked two years ago, but there was not way in hell that a bullet would fail. He held the gun in one hand, fiddling with it. He'd already written the note, and placed it gently on the bed, next to his violin case.

Thoughts of the past years flooded his mind. The first day of University, where a couple of guys had beaten him up when another guy had given him his phone number. How they constantly tormented him, even though he'd never actually gone a date with, or spoke to the guy ever again. By then, he'd already given up on emotions, and love. It was pointless, and as far as Sherlock could see, it was a weakness. It unmasked any vulnerability, any weakness. It was a disadvantage, a chemical defect found on the losing side.

Ending the war was the most logical answer, the correct one. At least, that was how it had seemed to nineteen year-old Sherlock. He glanced once more at the note.

Death has a strange appearance,

He comes to reap your soul,

before your thoughts can construct.

you sway back and forth in a black void,

full of turmoil.

No hope in escaping.

No use in trying. -SH

He lifted the gun to his head, the safety clicking off.

What he did not know, was that Mycroft had gotten the day off, and was coming to see him. What he did not know was that before he had even placed the note, Mycroft had entered the flat. What he did not know was that just before he pressed the trigger down, Mycroft walked into the room. What he did now was that Mycroft dived for him, and that due to that, the bullet did not enter his brain, rather in scraped it as it tore a gash through the low side of his head. What he did know was that, while it was damaging, and painful, it was not lethal.

What he did not see was Mycroft sobbing into the phone as he dialed the ambulance, crying out over and over again that he had failed him, and that he was so, so sorry. He did not see the things Mycroft did to ensure that his brother had the best care, he did not see the way he threatened people, the way he threatened to rip apart people's lives if they couldn't get him to awake.

He did not see the way that his brother dragged himself up the political ladder, just so that he could take care of him the best he could. He did not see the way Mycroft pleaded with their mother not to be upset and not to be mad with Sherlock. He did not see the slap his mother gave him. He did not know any of this until he'd awoken. Some of it, he did not learn for years.

Sherlock's POV

Mother was the one there this time, and I looked around for Mycroft. Mycroft wasn't here, and I felt my heart sink. He was more caring and understanding last time than mother. I wasn't supposed to be alive, I was supposed to die. I felt my eyes water, I'd failed again. Fathers words from years past flooded my mind. "God, you really are a failure, a freak, a hideous disease."

"Sherlock, darling," her words were soft, yet her eyes were hard. She'd never forgiven me for the first time I attempted suicide. "Mother I didn't mean to hurt you," I whispered, attempting to get her to understand. She shook her head at me. "A bullet through your brain, Sherlock Holmes. That is what you did to me, that's what you did to hurt me," she whispered and quickly bustled out of the room. I was alone. Tears poured freely down my face as I took in my unwanted abundance of life. Mycroft walked in, startled by my consciousness. "Brother dear," he whispered.

He was holding a cardboard cup of coffee, his red wavy locks a mess, as if he'd run his hair through it a thousand times. He'd traded in his argyle sweaters in years ago for the more polished suits that went with his job. He swallowed, and walked gingerly over to me. "Why won't you just let me die," I asked heavily. Mycroft sighed shakily, and took the seat next to me.

"I tried to talk to her," He was referring to our mother, who had never been the most gentle when it came to my mental health. "The doctors are going to try a new medication, Sherlock. And I, for one, would like to know why you.. why you tried again," His voice was hard, but not uncaring or furious. Just hurt. "Seemed logical," I quipped, not meeting his intensely saddened gaze. He scoffed, but I could hear the tears forming in his eyes. "Logical?"

"Yes, logical, it doesn't seem logical to carry on living when you're so miserable." He shook his head, his hands resting on his umbrella. His glasses had slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up. "Logic, brother mine, is not a reason to try to end your life," I shrugged, still refusing to look at him.

"Look. At. Me." He said quietly after a moment. I rolled my head so that I was facing him. Big mistake, my head exploded into a thousand pieces, the pain intense and throbbing. "I am going to do everything I can, Sherlock, to help you. But you have to talk to me, alright?" I nodded once, and he sighed. "Good, now, let's talk treatment plans." He pulled out a few pamphlets doctors had given him for treatment. None of them would lock me up, they were just medication plans. He sat with me, long into the night, talking to me, and trying to help me. It was the first time in a while that I felt listened to, and cared about.