Johnlock Oneshots

Suicide Savior (John)

I walk the halls of my home trying to decide what to do on my day off. Taking a nice walk seems to be a good option. I pull on my shoes and walk. There is no place in mind where I want to go or where I want to be. It's just me, a sidewalk, and the lively sound of the outside world between me and my footsteps. My heart beats to the everyday bustle of city living while I put my headphones in and escape the world. In a daze I continue my pointless walk until I see a storefront window with classy style. A mannequin wears a soft looking plaid flannel that I can't help resist.
I go in to the store and find the item in my size. Next, I find the changing room and try it on. The red, orange, and brown stripes match the warmness of my closet already. The sleeves cuff at the bottom to create a professional look too. I think it's sold.
      When I am changing my phone goes off. I check the text:
     Please help Sherlock is dying
     The text is sent from Mycroft. My face flushes yet rushes with heat. Feeling numb and oblivious, I exit the store. I didn't buy the shirt or let alone put my own back on. Not even knowing how to possibly get to Sherlock in time I just run down the streets like a madman.
     "Where's Baker Street? Please!" I ask other walkers. They look at me odd and continue trying to forget the strange encounter. Finally, a young man points down the road. I thank him over and over again as I rush away to the scene.
     The door knocker has been set straight. Mycroft is or was here. I open it and rush up the stairs. I do not shut it behind me.
     "Sherlock! Sherlock!" I scream out in agonizing chokes that get clogged in my throat.
     I see Mycroft standing over Sherlock's body. He tries to shake his brother back to life. He seems not to worry, but fright coats his face crystal clear.
     "John!" He screams out in a more vulnerable voice than a scared child. The first thing I note of Sherlock is the pooling blood dripping on the table and to the floor. The sight gives me chills.
     "Dear God." I whisper under my breath. I choke on tears and rage.
"Help him Mycroft!" I scream until all of the oxygen has left my lungs.
"You are the doctor!" He snaps. I rush over to Sherlock, though it is hard when your legs refuse to move to your closet nightmare. My hands shake as I check his pulse.
"He's alive." A small trace of hope burns inside of me. I lift his head from the dried blood and lay him on the floor since I'm not strong. I scrape some of the blood from around his nostrils so he can breath. I search his body for anything.
"It was himself." Mycroft quietly rages. At that I take a glance at his wrists.
"I suspect he overdosed then tried to kill himself." Mycroft acknowledges. That explains the empty pill bottle on the countertop. The slices are so deep they bleed black. I manage to sort through a drawer of junk to find a needle and thread. I lean over Sherlock and start right away.
"Please. I've already lost so much. I've seen my best friends die, and I don't need you to too. I didn't realize until now that I took you for so much less than what you actually are. Don't do this. I need you." I cry out in front of Mycroft and dampen my skin with tears. Every poke and prod I execute on Sherlock makes my heart sink a little faster. I tear the ends with my teeth and tie them up. I smile down on this lost man. The blood is everywhere, so I wipe down the table and floor. Sherlock is still matted down in it. Mycroft helps me get fresh clothes to put him in. I unbutton the lifeless doll's clothes and dress him in new. His hair is taken care of with water and a towel. If he were to die he looks ready. Mycroft leaves the room for a minute to give us space. After he closes the door I break out in a full cry. I bury my head deep into his chest and soak the fabric through.
"Don't you do this." I rasp as I hold his head tightly into my arms.
"I've cried over many of my friends deaths as such, but this time is different." I loosely hold his hand.
"Please..." I repeat over and over again under my straining breath. I hug him tight. A suffocating noise arises from Sherlock's mouth. He coughs and chokes and sits straight up. I go to remove my hand, but he squeezes it.
"No..." He weakly wheezes out. My tears turn from sadness to pure enthrallment. I hug him so tight and cry regardless of how sensitive it makes me.
"You're back..." I muffle into his shirt.
"I didn't realize you would miss me so." He smiles with a little drop of blood dripping from his lip.
"Of course I would..." I try to collect myself.
"My arms..." His face twists.
"I sewed them up. Why? Why did you do this?" I ask.
"John, I'm a sociopathic, druggy, alcoholic, with a destroyed body so you tell me. I'm pursued as a complete asshole by everyone and I can't keep up with these lies." He moans. I solemnly stare into his piercing eyes. I kiss him on the forehead.
"John." Says Sherlock.
"It was your day off. Why are you here?" He asks.
"Mycroft told me." Just at this moment I notice Sherlock's blood on my own hands. Mycroft coincidentally walks in at the same time.
"Brother." He holds his head high.
"Yes?" Sherlock asks.
"You are alive."He plainly points out.

"Thank you so much for taking care of my brother." He obliges in the front doorframe.
"You love him don't you? Sure Sherlock can point out anything, but he can never point out emotions."
"How would you know emotions? You are a Holmes?"
"I've been there once or twice, my friend. I bid you farewell." He leaves before I can ask him to elaborate.
Sherlock hobbles down the stairs. I aid him down.
"Do you want me to stay?" I ask.
"Please?" He slouches on the doorframe and looks up weakly at me.
I close the front door behind us and help him up the stairs.
"You are a suicide's savior." He smiles up at me.
"I'll be whatever whatever you want me to be." I smile back.