Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles - A Johnlock Story

Sadness Ends With A Needle

Third Person

Sherlock sat at the edge of the basin, rolling the syringe over in his hand. God, everything was so tediously boring now, and miserable. Even when he was high, boredom didn't have a cure anymore. He knew that he was being watched my his brother's people, but he didn't really care anymore, you see, he really didn't. They saw him shoot himself with drugs every day, so they really wouldn't suspect anything until it was too late. Sherlock was going to overdose today, and this time, no one would save him. They wouldn't. He had done the precise calculation of how long it would take for them to realize what he'd done, and then how long it would take for them to arrive. There would be plenty of time between his death and their arrival. Mycroft wouldn't make his weekly visit for two more days, so there was no chance of him walking in on him, as he'd done multiple times. So this was it. It had to be. It. HAD. To. Be.

Sherlock didn't have a note this time, that would notify his brother's men about what he was about to do. Instead, he had typed out, but not sent, a text to his brother, one that he would read when he was eventually found, dead.

Brother Dear,

I know you're mad at me for this, and upset. You have every right to be. I would be if I were you.

But I need you to understand why I'm doing this.

My life has no purpose anymore. Nothing can keep me happy, interested, and satisfied. Not even drugs, brother mine. I know it's been you taking out all my dealers. Thank you for always taking care of me, but I just can't do it anymore.

-SH

Sherlock sighed, and readied the needle, preparing himself. He pushed the needle in, e sleek silver metal disappearing until his skin as he administered the drug. Once he was done, he went about his business, trying to appear normal. He picked up his violin, one of the only things able to give him peace of mind anymore. He began playing a melancholy tune, wanting to be at peace in his last moments. Sherlock with his mind now at peace from the music, sat in his armchair. He slipped under, into a coma like state, and waited for death to take him.

It wasn't until his eyes had glassed over that the people watching him noticed something wrong. Suddenly their office was a flurry of phone calls and panic. Paramedics were released immediately to Sherlocks dingy flat, and Mycroft was called. He'd been in the middle of an important meeting, but the second he saw the emergency call, he abruptly excused himself, and ran. His driver had always been a bit slow, so Mycroft drove himself, speeding over 100mph towards his little brother.

"Please, please don't die, please don't go," he kept whispering over and over, tears falling down his face. When he got to his brothers house, it had already been an hour since his heartbeat had gone. They were about to give up, they couldn't revive him. Mycroft screamed at them to keep going, and that they weren't trying hard enough. He made them try for another half hour, when a paramedic put his hand on his shoulder, And told him that it was time to let go. Mycroft did nothing but shake his head.

"I've got a heartbeat!" One paramedic yelled. Mycroft sank to the floor in relief, crying. He was put in the ambulance with his little brother, and handed the phone. Mycroft read the text on the way to the hospital, thoughts of what to do next when Sherlock eventually awoke. The paramedic that had finally got the heartbeat, was in the ambulance, performing some sort of medical procedure that Mycroft didn't have the energy to concentrate on. He had blond hair, and an American accent.

One of his new recruits, Mycroft knew. He'd read up on his file, an ex-CIA agent with medical training. He couldn't remember his name however, his mind was too occupied with his brother to think about it. "What's your name?" Mycroft asked quietly. The blond's head lifted at the words. "Uh, Ian, sir," he responded, mildly confused. "Thank you Ian," Ian shrugged. "It's my job, sir." Mycroft nodded faintly. "But you didn't give up, thank you for that." Ian paused, and nodded. "Thank you, sir," He simply responded and continued his work.

Sherlocks POV

I was surprised to say the least when I woke up in a hospital once again. And angry. Mycroft was working on paperwork when I awoke. That struck me as odd, he always had one of his secretaries do that. "What the hell am I doing alive," I snapped, angry beyond belief. "Glad to see that your awake, brother mine." He didn't even look up from whatever he was doing. I waited silently as he signed one more sheet of paper and clicked the pen closed. When he lifted his eyes to mine, I was stunned by the hardened sadness in them. He was quiet for a moment longer before quietly saying,

"You're supposed to talk to me, or your therapist about this when you feel this way." I looked away, around the room, at anything other than those sad eyes, boring guilt into me. He sighed heavily, and stood. Mycroft walked over, buttoning his suit jacket and straightening his tie. "You nearly succeeded this time, Sherlock, you can't do this anymore." I ground my teeth, and looked up at him.

"I should've succeeded. Why the hell won't you let me die?" I asked, ignoring the pang of guilt I felt looking at him. "I," he paused looking down, making decisions in his mind. "Have made the decision that you can't be trusted on your own, anymore."

"What are you saying?" A seed of fear began to spread through me. "I'm saying," he paused again, "That I believe that it is time that you spend time in a rehab center." He wouldn't look at me as the fear bloomed into panic. "A mental ward?" I whispered, beginning to shake. "Yes," he responded, just as quiet.

"Mycroft," I began, before he cut me off. "This is your 5th attempt, what else can be done? They can help you, Sherlock, they can help you." He began attempting to persuade me. "I don't need to go, I'm fine!" I begged, tears threatened to spill over. No, I couldn't go there, Victor had been in there, it had been horrible, they had been awful to him.

"They lost your heartbeat for over an hour, Sherlock. You were dead!" Mycroft yelled, trying to get through to me. "You should've left me that way!" I yelled back. Mycroft locked his jaw, never a good sign. The room descended into an eerie silence. It was deafening, the silence, and terrifying, the rage and hurt that practically seeped through his pores. "I know your scared, Sherlock, I know. I know you think what happened to Victor will happen to you, but it won't. I will kill them if they do that, do you hear me? You will be safe, and they will help you. You're going. End of discussion."

"Please," I begged. I caught the edge of his sleeve, tugging on it. An old habit of mine, from when we were kids, I would tug on his sleeve to get his attention. His eyes flickered down to my hand, remembering. His eyes rose slowly to mine. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and and pulled his arm away, leaving the room.

Alone, I buried my head in my hands, sobbing.

AN: I KNOW I DIDN'T UPLOAD FOR A MONTH I KNOW IM SO SORRY!! Things got really crazy in my personal life and at school, and I've had no time to write. I'm on Spring Break right now, and I'll try to write a lot this week so that you guys don't have to wait a long time again, but right now, it's me uploading a chapter when I finish it. I'm really sorry guys.