A Photo Of John

Chapter 8

John was seriously concerned for Sherlock, I mean, what the hell was wrong with him? One day he's hugging him, the next, destroying his room and throwing him out! He had not seen Sherlock exit his room since. He sat in his chair and tried to go through with his normal internet schedule, he got distracted. Something was defiantly up, something that Sherlock is not saying. On Que, Sherlock swiftly walked out of his room and into the living space and plopped down into his chair and stared directly at John. John wanted to ask him so many questions but not one word could escape his lips. Sherlock spoke:

" How do you view me John?"

Silence. John was not expecting this.

" Um... well you're a good colleague and quite a genius and annoying as hell sometimes and... well, you're my best friend."

Sherlock nodded, expressionless.

" Is there anything you'd like to tell me John? This is of the utmost importance."

" Tell you?"

" Yes, tell me. Perhaps something sentimental? I'm willing to listen."

Sherlock folded his hands under his head, staring him down. John grew red.

" Erm... I don't think so..."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to John. He gripped his shoulders and whispered:

" Are you sure?"

John shivered and nodded.

Before backing away Sherlock slid his fingertips slowly and softly down John's face. Then he straitened up and murmured " Okay" and sat down on the couch, in his mind palace, eyes closed.

John felt conflicted, like he should've said something else, and uncomfortable. Why did he feel all jittery? He chose to avoid the situation instead of confront it.

" Goodbye Sherlock, I have work."

No reply.

John returned from work, refreshed and had forgotten about the strange way he was acting this morning. But when he entered the apartment, something was off. Sherlock was lying on the couch in a fetal position and he wasn't breathing. In a fetal position and he wasn't breathing. He wasn't breathing. Breathing. His face, streaked with pain, and a crumpled note lying on the table. But what was more disturbing was the bits of white powder left on the table. Oh, god. It was cocaine. He must have overdosed. John ran over to Sherlock and felt no pulse. John started to hyperventilate. There was only one thing he could possibly do. He called Mycroft.

Sherlock's POV

Sherlock finally had a plan. The emotions were obviously tearing him apart, and he needed to end the raging fire inside. He needed to become the ice man he once was, this was too much. He was going to ask John. Yes. But subtly, not outright. At this point he had no notion of killing himself, he just decided he wanted to know. After thoughtfully planning his words and actions, Sherlock carefully chose his outfit, and stepped out of his door, wearing his regular old blue robe. He sat down across from John, staring at him carefully. Trying to analyze his behavior. Finally, John placed his laptop down onto the table and stared.

He asked the question.

" John. I have sentimental feelings for you... I think I love you. I must know if my feelings are reciprocated immediately."

At least that's what he wanted to say. Unfortunately it wasn't very subtle.

" How do you view me John?"

Silence. John's brows furrowed. It was a question he didn't expect, unsurprisingly.

" Um... well you're a good colleague and quite a genius and annoying as hell sometimes and... well, you're my best friend."

Sherlock nodded, but inside he was screaming. He wanted John to see, why couldn't he see!

" Is there anything you'd like to tell me John? This is of the utmost importance."

" Tell you?"

" Yes, tell me. Perhaps something sentimental? I'm willing to listen."

Sherlock folded his hands under his head, staring him down. John grew red. Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore.

" Erm... I don't think so..."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to John. He gripped his shoulders and whispered:

" Are you sure?"

This couldn't be right. Sherlock thought his feelings would be returned, this was simply heartbreaking. He could feel his throat, choking up...

John nodded. Clearly uncomfortable. Oh god, of course he didn't love him, why would he? Sherlock was just making himself look like a joke, a fool. John would never return his feelings, Sherlock wasn't worth love anyways. But Sherlock was selfish... oh, so selfish... He brushed his fingers among his face, memorizing, feeling, watching, for any final hope that his feelings had been returned. None. Sherlock wanted to cry. Sherlock never cried until recently, over John, and... he would never feel the same. He was probably in for the rush, the chase, instead of Sherlock. It wasn't surprising. None of it was. And that's why it really hurt.

He forced himself away, knowing it would make John feel more comfortable.

" Okay."

He sat on the couch, trying to push him away, signal him to leave, but at the same time, he was hoping that he would ask if he was okay, nothing. John mumbled something about work and abruptly left. Rejection.

Sherlock wanted to die. Not in the silly, teenager - homework kind of way, there was no point to life. This wasn't a cheesy chic-flic, where John was his whole world, he wasn't. Sherlock never cared about what happened to himself until John. Until John. But John made his position clear.

A voice screamed in his head

" YOU SAW HIM BLUSHING! YOU SAW HIM SHIVER! THERE MIGHT BE SOMETHING THERE!"

His logical mind disagreed. It must have been all in his head. That often happens to people with affection for someone who doesn't return it. Fantasy takes over, and you see what you want to see.

He spent most of his remaining time writing his note. It had to be perfect, perfect for someone who he didn't deserve to ever have. Then he decided his choice of death. Nothing to messy, nor too clean. Something pleasurable, but with enough pain that he felt like he was dying. He made his decision.

He snorted the cocaine. Too much too much... he felt everything get clear and vivid all at once, like nothing he had ever felt before. But his pulse was racing faster and faster. He was having a heart attack. It hurt so much, but it almost felt good at the same time. He could finally disapear. As if a deep baritone drum had sounded, his pulse stopped. Everything went black.