Secrets Aren't Made Slowly

Don't Let It Hurt Anymore

Sherlock POV: Sherlock wished John hadn't been the last one in the room; however he noticed that even as the students had taken their seats and the final bell had rung, there was one seat that remained empty. He had almost hoped that John wouldn't be daring enough to show his face, he had almost hoped that the boy had slipped on some water in the hallway and cracked his head open on the tiles. And yet he walked in, the door opened four minutes after he was supposed to be in and yet Sherlock paid him no attention, simply because he couldn't stand to see that boy's face without feeling the same sort of twisting, agonizing pain in his heart. It had taken all of his energy just to sit up straight in his chair, not fall over onto his desk and curl his bludgeoned head onto the desk and weep! Oh he should have known this was how his first genuine love would end up; he should've known that it was too good to be true. He was never destined to have anyone for long, oh most of his affairs were limited to one night, the only one that had lasted longer was John Watson, and of course after just four days he was rudely reminded that universe had never changed its mind about him. He was never going to be pardoned from eternal pain; in fact John's presence in his life was just another cruel trick of Fate to remind him just how miserable he was destined to be for the rest of his life. Whatever hopes he had of leaving his wife, of leaving this town, hand in hand with the one man that had loved him for the right reasons oh how could he have been so stupid?! They were gone! He was gone...John Watson was nothing more than a face in the crowd anymore, nothing more than a boy holding down a desk and daydreaming while Sherlock tried to explain some equations. He was just...he was just a boy. Sherlock lifted his head finally, seeing the class staring back at him with blank expressions, as if wondering why their usually pristine calculus teacher was suddenly blotchy and unkempt, with his hair in a mess and his clothes covered in dust.
"Homework. Please." Sherlock yelped in the smallest of voices, his throat catching on his last syllable and forcing him to hold his fist to his lips to as to force down the immanent sob that was starting its way up his throat. This was most certainly destined to be the worst class period, the worst ninety minutes, of his entire life. The rustling of papers announced that the students had all taken their homework out onto their desks, and yet all the while Sherlock was choking on his emotions and could not manage to bring himself from his desk. He felt as though his knees were too clammy, his muscles might refuse to work, and how embarrassing would it be to just topple over next to his desk! He couldn't do it.
"Bring them to me." Sherlock whimpered, grabbing his red pen from his desk and his clipboard with whatever strength he had left in his arms. It was almost painful, and yet the line formed right in front of him, all of those expectant faces, all of those adoring eyes. Those same eyes, filled with the same sort of impossible longing, and one pair that had gotten exactly what they had wanted! One pair that was just as old as the rest, just as hopeless as the rest, and yet ever so successful, on the pretenses of just one little lie! Oh how horrible it all was, that Sherlock had loved just one of these students lined up before him, loved him and cherished him and cradled him, only to find out that he really was just a student. So underserving, so young still... Sherlock marked everyone's homework today for completeness, for he couldn't be bothered to look through his own work and cross reference. He was too afraid to take the papers in his own hands, and so he only nodded and dashed a red line across the little check boxes on his roster. He didn't dare look at the faces of the students, simply because any one of them could be the one he was most afraid to look at, and yet the hand clutching the paper was familiar enough, the fingers that were trembling were only one of the many signs Sherlock observed when John approached his desk. He didn't even mark anything, with one simply noise from his parted lips he dismissed John Watson from his desk, from the very place... Oh he should just stop thinking about it; he needed to forget it all! Whatever love that had been accomplished, whatever feelings had been concocted, well it was just falsified, all of it, mimicry! He couldn't think of those kisses and feel anything but dread; he couldn't think about that love and feel anything but complete emptiness! It hurt him unmeasurably; it hurt him in a way that he had never been wounded before! It made his life seem worthless, it made whatever he's done just feel like black and white, and everything he'd ever do feel blurry, almost inexistent! He couldn't imagine a future for himself after this, simply because he realized that this pain burning inside of him right now would be there for the rest of his life. He couldn't see himself enjoying anything anymore, as if he had ever actually enjoyed anything before! The only thing he had ever actually loved was John Watson, the only moments he felt happy where when he was with him, and even though with time that boy would grow to be a man, no he was just ruined! Even in ten years Sherlock could not go back to him, he knew there would be nothing to come back to, nothing could be the same! He could not love that boy again, even in ten years he would still know that ten years before he had loved him while he was just seventeen... No it was horrendous! The only person he ever loved is now just another person on the list of his regrets. When the class had returned to their seats Sherlock knew that he was supposed to instruct them, he knew that he was supposed to teach them. He could barely talk, he couldn't get up from his chair, he couldn't even looking upon their faces without getting a glimpse of the boy who had shattered his heart, sitting in the back row. Sherlock could only imagine the expression on John's face, most likely something very similar to his own. He might be crying already, that or he was smiling. Maybe this entire thing had just been a plot to break Sherlock to the pieces he currently sat in now? No, no of course not. John was regretful, John had cried, there was real love here, if there hadn't been it wouldn't have lasted quite so long and been quite so beautiful if their hearts had never really connected. And maybe that was the tragedy in it all, maybe that was the sole reason it hurt so bad. Because they were being separated, cut apart with the dull blade of truth, John hadn't wanted to confess, he knew that by saying those fateful words they would be parted, he knew that it would be over. He had been forced; if that video hadn't been unearthed then the secrets they had kept would still be hidden! If Victor hadn't shown Sherlock that tape and he hadn't had that crazy plan of arresting him, well this never would have happened, would it? No they would still be together, that lunch meeting might have turned out drastically more intimate, instead of sitting here and holding back tears Sherlock might have been sitting here and trying to restrain a smile.
"Book work, just...chapter twelve, please. Book work." Sherlock muttered, blinking rapidly for he was beginning to feel that telltale stinging. He could feel the pain that was starting to surface, it was bubbling over like boiling water and he couldn't hold it back, he couldn't retrain it! God! It took him about three minutes, long before anyone had actually opened their books, to begin to cry. He had done everything he could to restrain himself, and yet the air was still thick with the presence of John Watson, he couldn't do anything to help himself! The first few tears were only a warning, he had hoped they would be the whole of this tragic episode and yet they were just the announcement of what was to come. He sat was his head hidden behind his hands, sniffling and wiping at his eyes agressivley, on anyone with a pair of eyes and a half equipped brain could tell what was happening here. Once a sob escaped his lips, so small yet so noticeable in the silent room, it brought those eyes towards him, not only everyone else's eyes but those hazel ones as well. They noticed him, and they almost shed a tear themselves. In time Sherlock could only spin his chair around in an attempt to hide his emotions, the students only saw his bowed head, his crooked legs, they saw the back of his chair and they heard his whimpering. He couldn't do anything now, he couldn't feel anything now. He had never been so numb; he had never felt so helpless. He sat in this chair now and he wanted it to be the last time, he lingered in this school and yet he knew it was the very institution that had brought about his downfall. He existed in this world and yet he didn't know why! He didn't want to, he didn't deserve it! He was a common criminal now, oh not just for being gay, not just for drugs, no he was so deformed at this point, so unworthy, so crooked... He felt nothing but pain, emotions that were now so strong that they physically hurt him! It was a force so unbearable and a feeling so miserable, oh he couldn't stand it, he didn't want to stand it! He wanted it to be over, to be done, and there was only one way to just silence it. These emotions, these burnings... It was the longest ninety minutes of his life, and yet when the class left so did he. Sherlock didn't want to get one last look at John Watson; he didn't want to remind himself of the pain he felt, the pain that boy had inflicted upon him. Oh he knew that one glance at that golden head might convince him otherwise, it might stray him off the path he had set for himself on. The only path he had ever traveled that had an end in sight. When the sounds in the hallway died off Sherlock got to his feet, lugging himself up with the force of his sturdy wooden desk, he left his things there, decorating the desk so that it appeared as though he was still present. His mug, filled with alcohol, sat on the corner of his planner as it always did. His phone lay face down behind his pile of sticky notes, his roster and some tests were still placed there where he had left them. The only thing that would now be absent was himself, and he didn't even bother to look back at the place he had left behind. He wanted to be rid of it, he didn't want to think about it as he started his way down the hallway, crutching along with tears still shining against his cheeks. He was alone, and his footsteps echoed as they did when there was nothing left to stop them. He was the embodiment of pain, he was the epitome of a shattered piece of glass, he stumbled from the school into the daylight even though he wasn't allowed. Even though he was supposed to stay...no he was gone. He was gone. It wasn't even Victor's tape that pushed him over the edge, in fact he had almost forgotten that breaking up with John was the very thing he refused to do. Back when he had all the hope in the world that the man who was supposed to be his knight in shining armor would come and save him. Little did he know he was lying with the very dragon! And yet a life without John was not a life worth living, and the additive of Victor's leash around his neck, now doubling as a noose, was just enough to convince himself to not live it at all. A life without love, oh he really had hit rock bottom! He couldn't lose John Watson, so John would just have to lose him. And so Sherlock got into his car, convinced and dedicated to fall no further, no, life would not give him another opportunity to tumble down! No more mistakes will be made; no more love will be regretted, no more pain. Oh didn't that sound just wonderful? No more pain. And so he started the car, pulling out of the parking lot that was still full, knowing that there would be no one noticing his absence until the final bell rang, and Molly came to lecture him once more about eating healthy and making good choices. She wouldn't find him. He didn't make a good choice. He wasn't going to make a good choice; he had never made a good choice! What was wrong with him, what had he done to destroy himself, what had he done to...to destroy his life? Sherlock only shook his head, driving down the road and heading nowhere, the last road he would follow. The last car he would drive. The last time he would follow this familiar trek, oh it was wonderful! It was like an honor to know he never had to see these stoplights, or these large signs advertising fast food. He would never have to listen to these radio stations, or see the clouds that hung low over the hidden blue sky. He would be done with the world, gone out of it like a faded mist, oh but who would miss him, who would care? The world wanted rid of him, it wasn't the other way around. John's deceit was just the final proof, the only tipping point he need to realize that this world was not for him. He was not meant for it, he was not made for it! It was good that he was going. Going home, going away. Mrs. Hudson wasn't at the door when Sherlock arrived, she must not have expected him home and so she hadn't bothered to be present. Sherlock wished that she might have been there, he enjoyed her company. He would have liked to say goodbye. Mrs. Hudson was now the only person who had stuck with him, who had appreciated him. Mrs. Hudson remained to be the only one who proved to be human, to be kind and tolerable. All the rest had just been mimics of what real compassion was like. It was a shame, however Sherlock climbed the stairs. He wasn't intending on leaving a note, he didn't want his last breaths to be wasted on trying to explain something everyone already knew. They knew who was responsible; they knew who was to blame. They would all think it was them, they would all think that in some way they had a hand in his death and they would be correct! It wasn't just John's fault, although he was the tipping point it was everyone else who had been the one to push Sherlock towards the ledge. Victor and his 'love', his dedication and his lies, Victor and his video tapes and his blackmail, Victor and his drugs, he was to blame. Janine, having been the one to trap Sherlock in one place for the entirety of his life, Janine who yelled at him for the simplest and stupidest things, Janine who guilt tripped Sherlock out of loving other men, Janine who laughed at him when he had explained why John would save the day. She was to blame as well. And Molly Hooper, for her never-ending love and support, her asphyxiating comfort and joy, for her continual reminders that Sherlock was living his life wrong, for her everlasting reminder that he had been a failure in not only love and life, but in diet and exercise as well. She was to blame as well. And John Watson, oh him most of all. The little tap that sent Sherlock over the cliff, it was predominantly his fault. His lies, his love, his gentleness and the false hope he brought to Sherlock, the idea that maybe he had finally found a reason to live only to be reminded once more that he was deprived of any legitimate excuse to be occupying space any longer. When the world told him that they didn't want him, well John had been his one and only companion! The one man that stood up for him when everyone just pegged him as nothing more than a waste of oxygen and a burden, John Watson, who had abandoned him as soon as he asked anything, John Watson who had lied to him from the beginning and was planning on lying until the end. John Watson who had to have the truth forced out of him, even while he knew that the truth was surely going to mark the end of a life that was so badly lived and so thoroughly loved. Loved by the wrong men, at the wrong time, only for a night, and without any feelings at all. A life that had been appreciated not for its soul, but for its body. A life that would only be looked on as a loss for the beauty he had been forced to wield, the very beauty that had attracted the hatchet that would take off his head. No one had ever seen Sherlock Holmes as more than an object so maybe that would be what he would become. There really was no difference there, to his being dead or alive. He never felt anything in life and so in death it must be the same. Maybe the men at the funeral would pass around his corpse and have a go, simply because this time he couldn't protest? No they wouldn't miss him, no one would stand at that podium and speak about all the wonderful times they had, no one would talk about how much he would be missed, about how they would mourn him for the stories he would tell and the structure he brought to the world. There would be no empty hole in their lives, only less clutter. Only less of a burden! They would miss him for the pleasure he brought them when the sun went down, they would ache for him and know finally that he wasn't simply theirs because they had strolled all the way to his apartment. Their hearts wouldn't be empty, their beds would be. And that wasn't a loss. They would find another. Only one man could ever claim to have known the real Sherlock, only one man had the potential to speak about him as a human and not just a possession. That was the very person who could never claim to have loved him, simply because with such a confession would bring about a criminal investigation. John Watson would have to sit and be quiet, he would have to hold his memories in his hands and keep them to himself. Maybe Sherlock's death would hurt him. He hoped it did. He hoped that he would hurt the same way Sherlock did now; he hoped that he would cry. It served him right. Sherlock stepped into his apartment without the need of a keyring, it was unlocked, and it was empty. Janine must be out, for the first time in her existence, she must have stepped out of the house. It was a lucky coincidence, because now was the only time Sherlock actually needed some privacy. She would want to stop him; he knew that, so it was good that she wasn't here. Sherlock stepped over to the drugs pile, the one they kept in case of emergency, all hidden away in a large sewing tin. He didn't know the perfect drug to take, he didn't have a miracle formula to end his life, and so he chose all of the syringes he could find. It didn't matter what was inside them, the more the merrier supposedly. The more he could overload with the better, all of these might pull him in different directions, and enough of each would split him half just as he wanted them to. It would work. There were seven in all. There was no formalities, there was no sort of ceremony. Sherlock almost expected someone upstairs to notice; maybe an angel would materialize on his couch and prevent him from making such a rash decision. And yet to be honest Sherlock had never been so sure of anything in his life, he had never been so positive on such a move. He knew that this would be the last move, the last move in a game that had never been finished, halted before he lost. He forfeit just in time to save him from failure. From the aching his heart would bring him, from the calamity of his affair being realized. Right now he wasn't only saving himself from scandal but from prison as well. If he died in this way people might mourn him enough to distort him into some sort of hero he never got the chance to be. If he died now, maybe people would pretend to miss him so much they actually would. No one was stopping him, no one wanted to. And so Sherlock sat on the couch glumly, pushing away the disgusting blankets and holding the plastic needles that would be the death of him. Should he try for all at once or should he go periodically, enjoying the high before he was to die? Oh it was beginning to feel so complete; he was almost excited to leave. It was like his final bow, he would be discovered on this couch, he would be discovered in a heap, maybe on the floor, wearing his purple shirt, a smile on his face, perhaps. It would be poetic, almost. Beautiful. The blinking light of the VCR caught Sherlock's attention, it was telling him to press play, it was telling him that maybe there was something even more poetic that he could be doing. The recap of the mistakes that he had made, playing all the while they discovered his broken body. It would be beautiful. And so Sherlock jumped at the VCR, turning on the TV with clammy fingers and starting the thing over. It had been edited, presumably, for most all of their conversation had been cut out. It hadn't begun when the detention had; no it started just as their conversation was beginning to pick up, and as the minutes were counting down. Sherlock could only look away and try to block out the memories, the faces and the sounds. He knew that John was speaking, and even with the sound of his voice, Sherlock's heart began to beat faster. He got back up on the couch, taking a glimpse at the screen as he uncapped the first needle, smiling softly as he saw himself in the pixels, saying something quietly to John and looking at the clock. But that had been then, and this was now. Then he had hoped for something more, and now he regretted that something so much he was beginning to push a needle into his arm. He injected it quickly, taking a quick breath of relief as he felt the drug seep into his veins, circulate, distribute. His heart was pumping faster and it wasn't because he was scared, in fact his body seemed to be excited, he was tingling, he was ready to need it no longer. This would be the only thing they found, it would be the only thing that remained. He saw John smile, and he injected the second. This one felt slightly rougher than the last, it didn't house the same high pleasure as the first. It began to make him feel...odd. It was a welcoming feeling. Maybe it wouldn't take seven after all. The third came as Sherlock rose from his desk four days before, the forth was pushed in as John fell into his arms. The fifth came when they sat back on the desk, and Sherlock's eyesight was too blurry to realize what milestone announced the sixth. He was on his back...somehow, for he couldn't find his arm. He couldn't see and yet he heard someone yelling, it wasn't on the tape, no it was real. It sounded distant, however, almost as if he was being lifted from his body. He could hear a voice, the same voice that had been yelling at him for how many years of his life...yelling about an ambulance. Trying to rip the seventh out of his hands. Yelling something that he couldn't process, that he didn't want to think about. Yelling something that he just opted not to hear.
"THERE ARE STILL PEOPLE WHO LOVE YOU, SHERLOCK YOU CAN'T, SHERLOCK YOU CAN'T...MARTHA AN ABULENCE, HURRY, PLEASE!" Janine screamed, falling to her knees as she took Sherlock's thin body in her arms, holding his head up off the floor so that the vomit streaming from his mouth wouldn't choke him. His once beautiful face was distorted, his eyes were blood shot and crossed, he was trembling and shaking like a leaf, his fingers still clutched over the last of the many syringes that littered around his cold body. His dark curls were matted with sweat and that horrible video was playing in the background, while she heard his past self-breathing she couldn't feel any air current from his nose, she couldn't feel his lungs inflating. She was crying but she couldn't feel it, she just clutched his body to her, she held him in her arms once more and screamed in agony. It was a scream he hadn't heard, her poor husband. What was left of him, at this point. He had been chasing life so long he forgot he was trying to outmatch death, and now he had stopped. And it had caught him. It had devoured him by his own hand; oh that heart that never beat for her had stopped all together. Her husband. Her Sherlock Holmes. He had never been hers, never properly. Oh there was a ring, there was a document. She had been the one to hold him in death but never in life. She was the one that sat there and cradled him, so that he didn't have to be alone anymore. So that he didn't have to hurt any longer. Maybe it was something of a relief. He was done suffering now, wasn't he? He was done hurting. Maybe it was for the best. Oh Sherlock Holmes...maybe he was better off dead.