Falling (JohnLock)

chpr. 14

Omg I'm so sorry okay trigger warnings: self harm and suicidal tendencies

By the time John had finished the letter, the rain had stopped, but his tears had not. He reread every word on those starched pages twice more, and leaned his head against the wall, heaving a dry sob. His wrist was on fire, but no flames licked at his skin. Sharp stabbing pains were shooting up his arm, much like the pain in his heart. He glanced at his watch again as his cleared his throat, trying to control himself. The small hands had ticked resolutely to 5:24am, and he decided it he may as well get up. He shakily stood, his knees and back protesting, and he stumbled into the kitchen. He kept his hand cradled to his chest, and sat at the table with a soft thump. He bit the inside of his cheek and braced himself as he position his fingers around the injured hand. With a sharp tug in the right direction, the bone was back in place, and a strangled cry erupted from his throat. He breathed heavily and bound the wrist with a crepe bandage as he sniffled. His grazed knuckles bled through the fabric, but he ignored it, as it wasn’t very heavy. He watched as Sherlock’s experimenting equipment taunted him from the table, mocking his loss. He snarled and swiped his good hand, throwing the Bunsen burner off the edge and onto the floor. He struck again, a beaker joining its comrade and smashing to pieces. His rack of test tubes hit the floor next, the wood breaking apart and the tubes shattering. Filter paper scattered everywhere like pure white confetti at a parade, seemingly celebrating his grief and only serving to make John furious. He had surely woken Mrs Hudson by now but kept going. The shards of glass on the floor were made up of test tubes, beakers, flasks and a graduated cylinder. His blood was flecked onto some of the pieces, when he had cut his fingers accidentally, and was now splashing to the floor in crimson droplets. The Bunsen burner lay in the remains of his fallen friends, the one survivor. He shoved his hand into a drawer and retrieved a sharp knife, glinting in the rays of the rising sun. Taking a breath, he raised the knife to the base of his neck. He didn’t hesitate, because he knew if he did, he would never go through with it. He pressed it hard into his skin, and dragged the blade across his throat. Blood flowed from the new wound, staining his pale skin, just as Mrs Hudson came up to see what all the noise was about. The rain started up again. She screamed. He fell.

A/N: It's 1:32 am and I'm not tired