Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles - A Johnlock Story

Sadness Ends With Pills

Third Person

Sherlock sat on the floor of the bathroom, rolling the pill bottle over in his hands. He was 27 now, graduated from college, and yet again, depressed.  Mycroft couldn't see him now, Sherlock had rigged the cameras to play a loop. The medications had worked for awhile, but their effect had worn off. The sleeping pills he held in his hand, would work well enough. He was just so tired,  so tired of it all.

He was exhausted in every sense of the word, physically, emotionally, and mentally. He just wanted to be done, to let go. His life, his life had perilous and persistent in the way of hardships. And Sherlock just wanted it to be over. There were so many times that he'd been screwed over, and his happiness stolen.

His father had stolen his childhood, hai innocence and self love, his mother had stolen his confidence in people's word, Victor stole his ability to love, University had taken his self-esteem, Mycroft had... Mycroft had... well, he'd tried to help.

Mycroft did so much for him. He'd climbed the government ranks so that he could watch over him, though he'd never really admit it. He was now the most powerful man in all of Britain at the age of 35. Sherlock hated himself for doing this to him, he really did. But he was so tired, so exhausted and wanted to be done.

There was a clear distinction now, of physically tired, and emotionally or mentally tired. And Sherlock was all of the above. He had started doing some private work, for Scotland Yard mostly. Not a lot, just enough to get bills payed. He liked it, yes, but everyday was a challenge to get through. Only one of the investigators liked him, G. Lestrade, and that was more of a tolerance than anything. There was rumor that he'd get promoted to D.I, Sherlock hoped it was true, he would make an excellent one. Sherlock uncapped the pill bottle, no poem at his side, just a real, self-written note.

I am truly sorry, Brother mine.

You did everything you could, you really did. I am eternally grateful for that,

but I just can't go on anymore. I am exhausted with life, and I want to be done.

Please don't try to save me this time, Mycroft, please.

Do that for me, please? It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?

Then please let it be that, a note. Please don't revive me, I don't want to be.

Our lives have been full of hardship, and turmoils, hasn't it?

So please, let me die peacefully, brother dear. Give me this one easy thing.

-SH

Sherlock looked it over one last time, and set it in his lap. He began taking the pills, one by one, until they were gone. It was painless, really, as he slipped down under its current. So effortless, like falling asleep.

What he did not know was that Mycroft's intelligence forces had immediately noticed the loop, and called him. What he did not see was the way Mycroft almost dropped the phone in shock and despair, and then was immediately on his way to his little brother's flat, yelling through his phone to dispatch paramedics. What Sherlock did not know was that it was barely ten minutes between him swallowing the last pill, and his brother and the paramedics arriving.

What he didn't know was the way Mycroft threatened all of their jobs if they didn't save him. What he did not see was a shaking Mycroft pick up the note, slowly, as if in a dream. He did not see his hand pressed to his mouth, tears rolling down his cheeks as he read it. What he did not see was the way he sobbed the whole way to the hospital, and while he waited for Sherlock to wake. What he did not see was the way he prayed to a God he didn't even believe in, to save his little brother. He didn't see the 16 hours that Mycroft spent in the hospital chapel, praying. 16 of the twenty hours he spent not knowing if Sherlock would make it. What Sherlock did not see was that the minute it was clear that he would make it, Mycroft never left his bedside.

What he did not see was the way Mycroft only called their mother when he was sure Sherlock was going to survive, and told her not to come. Sherlock did not see him stand up to their mother once and for all, and told her she only hurt Sherlock worse. Sherlock did not see the way Mycroft essentially cut all ties to her, only for the reason that she would hurt Sherlock more. Sherlock didn't know

Sherlock's POV

Blinding white was the first thing I registered, that, and the incredible pain in my abdomen. Mycroft was slumped in the corner, his red hair already beginning to grey from the stress of his job.  Confused, I tried to push myself into a sitting position. Even more pain shot through me, and a small whimper escaped me before I could stop myself. Mycroft's head shot up at the noise.

"Sherlock, you're awake, lay back down," he hurried over, and gently pushed me back down. I struggled against him, but the pain was too great. I slipped back down, groaning. "They had to pump your stomach three times, and they still weren't sure you were going to survive," He explained as a nurse came in to check on me. They took my vitals, and administered pain medication, and I sat in silence. Not complying, but not resisting. I was too tired to try to stop them, in too much pain.

Once the nurse had left, Mycroft sat on the hospital bed, his hands resting on his umbrella. "Sherlock..." I looked away, not wanting to talk to him. He sighed, and continued. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." My head swiveled around, and my eyes narrowed. "You're what?" He nodded, and looked up at the ceiling, holding back tears.

"I've failed you. I've always tried to keep you safe, and I failed you, and I am sorry Sherlock. But, why, why did you try again? Why didn't you talk to me?" His voice was soft and gentle, and I hated it. I wanted him to be angry, to yell at me.

"Why aren't you mad?" I asked dismissively. He scoffed and shook his head. "No, no, no. We are not doing this again, Sherlock. We are going to put you on a stronger medication, okay?" I sighed.

"I don't see a point," I muttered, still angry that he wouldn't bloody let me die. "I prayed, brother dear." My brow shot up in surprise. "You don't even believe in-"

"I know. But I prayed, for 16 hours, because I need you alive. You're loss would end me, Sherlock. Your life means more to me than I can describe. You're the one thing I have left." Stunned at his words I mumbled, "You have mother." He shook his head, lips pursed.

"I told her to go to hell, if she won't help you, then she doesn't need to be in our lives." A small smile spread across my face, he'd never stood up to her. Perhaps he was telling the truth, and he needed me. "Okay, we'll try to the new medication."

His eyes brightened, and a slow smile spread across his face too. "Okay."