Sherlock & John (A Teenlock Fanfiction)

Chapter Fifty Seven - Empty And Gone

A/N: This is basically a suicide scene. Viewer discretion adVISED GUHhhg and I'm sorry it's just Monday you know you can stab me it's fine I won't care

Sherlock

Sherlock was quivering like a leaf. He didn't even know if he was alive - maybe he'd already shot the gun - it sort of felt like a dream that was almost lucid. This phone call didn't feel real.

"Oh my God, oh my God, where the hell have you been?!" John shouted.

The gun is in your hand.

The safety is off.

There are two bullets in the chamber.

Just shoot it.

Just. Shoot it.

Sherlock had stolen a pistol from his dad's cabinet. Before Violet died, Siger'd go out hunting with coworkers, and Sherlock would watch him place the key under the carpet below the gun armoire. Violet always made him unload the guns, but Siger taught Sherlock how to shoot when he was eleven. It was easy to disassemble and reassemble a gun, so cocking it was the least of his problems. He was incredibly good at shooting; he could get a perfect ten in a shooting range one hundred meters away.

Sherlock breathed into the phone, pressing the metal barrel into his temple.

"Sherlock? Hello?" His voice was passionate, full of rage. "If you fucking hang up this phone, I swear to God I will drive down to Baskerville."

Sherlock dug the gun into his forehead. "We moved," he said, every vibration in his throat like nails on a chalkboard.

"Why on earth - where have you been?" John said, "And you better have been either ill or in a coma, I'll tell you that-"

Pull the trigger.

"Yeah," Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. "I've been dealing with certain issues. I'm fine. How... are you?"

Oh, God. His fingers were itching. He just wanted to have it over with. All of it. Every utterance John produced made Sherlock press the gun more and gnash his teeth harder.

"How am I," John mused. "How the fuck am I." Sherlock could hear something thud against a desk. An elbow, maybe. "You would know," John said hoarsely, "if you answered. My damn. Calls."

"I'm sorry, John, I don't want to go without telling you I'm sorry, I..." Sherlock audibly swallowed. "Sorry," he choked.

"Well, take that sorry; take it, and shove it up your ass."

Please. Please, for God's sake, do it. It'll be so easy. Do it.

"John," Sherlock said, shaking. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure. Just don't end up not answering your boyfriend's calls for six weeks!"

"...Do you care about me anymore?" Sherlock suddenly replied, quivering. His finger lapsed away from the trigger for less than an instant as he spoke, hoping that John would have something to say. Anything to say, actually. Even if what he had to say hurt. That would make this so much simpler. If only.

John was silent for a moment. "I don't even know anymore," John spat. "I don't know. Do you care about me? Did you ever care about me?"

Sherlock replied, "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah. I did. I always did." If he raised his voice above a breath, John would hear his words catch. He was tightening his finger. Pressing harder.

"You never did. This entire relationship was a joke that you played on me. Well done."

"John," Sherlock's voice quaked as it rose, "I just called to apologize for everything. And I want you to know that I adored you. I adored you and I know it won't matter in a minute or two but I just wanted you to know that. The me that's me now is yours."

"Sherlock." John's tone changed swiftly. "Are you okay? You don't sound like yourself."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, tears beginning to trail down his face. "I'm fine," Sherlock told himself. "I'm fine. It'll be done soon."

"What'll be done?"

When Sherlock didn't answer, too busy biting down on his knuckles to formulate a response, John shuffled in his seat for a choking moment before saying, "Sherlock, I want you to listen carefully."

"Yes," Sherlock choked, breathing hard through his nose. He needed to stop crying. He needed to stop.

"Are you about to hurt yourself?"

Sherlock nodded once, and then realized John couldn't hear. He didn't want to speak, lest John hear him, but when John repeated the question, Sherlock couldn't help but spit out a hitched "yes."

"Okay, Sherlock. I need you to put down the gun for me, okay?"

"No, John, I can't. I can't," he said, his voice becoming hysterical.

"Put down the gun, and we can figure it out later," John replied softly. His voice was suddenly calm and soft, an ache in Sherlock's chest.

"I can't do this anymore... this was supposed to be your note, John, because it was only right, I couldn't just leave with saying goodbye, I couldn't, I..." Sherlock pressed the gun to his temple too hard, and it began to cut into him. "Everyone wants me dead. I want me dead."

"I don't want you dead, Sherlock. Put the gun down."

"No," Sherlock said. "I can't..." He breathed hard and braced himself, speaking fast and urgent. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry that I came into your life, and I'm sorry I touched your hand, and I'm sorry you were stupid enough to like me, let alone love me, and I'm sorry that I pushed you away, and I'm sorry I pulled you back. I'm sorry I let you in, and I'm sorry that I didn't let go the first time. And I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, please don't do this, please. I'm on my knees. I'm asking you to put it down, Sherlock, oh God. Oh God."

"I'm sorry, I adore you, goodbye-"

"Sherlock, no, don't-"

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock gritted out.

Panic rose in John's throat, breaking into a scream. "Sher-"

Sherlock hung up. The dial tone throbbed in his ear as he lowered the gun onto the desk, and when the sun set, his sobs rose into the air like dancing incense. Love was cold. Sherlock knew that now.

John

So that was it, then?