Death was becoming something Sherlock had become accustom to. He suspected at the drop of a hat, that any of his friends, family, or colleagues could die.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and thought about it. Death what a strange word, a strange idea. Death was never called for, yet it takes us all in the end. Sherlock began to long for death, for pain, for a chance to feel something other than loneliness.
He had lost John, Reign, Lestrade, and Molly to the cold hands of death. Who was next? Mary? Anderson? Mycroft? He didn't want to think about it but he did anyway.
Sherlock, against all better judgement dug behind the couch. Searching for the morphine he had been hiding for years. He drank some, allowing his head to clear and his vision to blur slightly. He leaned back in his chair and let himself relax, the first time in years.
He had missed the feeling of being weightless, mindless, and numb. As he relaxed in his chair he let life go on outside of him. He knew bodies were moving vigorously on the streets below, he knew they all had stresses of their own, but were moving on with the burden, they were indeed stronger than him. He suspected that Mrs. Hudson and Mary would be up to check on him soon, he couldn't do anything about it but stumble over from his chair, to the couch. He sat and fell backwards, a large grin on his face. He stared at the ceiling, playing connect the dots with the plaster bumps scattered here and there. Death fogged his mind again, but this time, the thoughts seemed pleasant. He could imagine how easily death would get him, swallow him up into its dark void existence.
"Sherlock!" Johns voice ricocheted off the walls of the flat. Sherlock smiled, happy to hear his old friend. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" Sherlock nodded slightly, his eyes still pasted on the ceiling, his body not moving.
"Martha is this normal?" John screamed in fear.
Sherlock reached his arm slowly up towards the ceiling. He had hit the morphine a bit too hard, and was becoming incoherent. He tried to roll, to see John, but his body rejected the attempt and he was pinned in place. He began to scream, shouting Johns name, his form of calling help. His mind was quickly going black and his body refused any struggle to move.
"Call someone!" John shouted. Sherlock was able to focus for a moment as he saw John leaned over him, a look of shock on his face. But as his vision blurred John faded into Mary, tears filling her eyes. "Stay with me Sherlock!"
That was the first time Sherlock attempted suicide. He had thought about it, and came close, but until that day he had never gone through with it. Within the next year he had tried twenty-four more times. The attempts ranged from drugs to taking a gun to his own head. But each time something had stopped him from leaving earth.
He became a pressure point to the remaining people in his life. They refused to let him be alone, and he was under constant quarantine. Mary had weekends, Mycroft on Monday and Friday, mrs Hudson Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and Irene had Thursday.
Today was Thursday. Sherlock lay on the couch, a habit he had become accustom to. Irene sat in his chair, reading a book she had started last time she was over. "We can go out." She reminded him.
"Hmm." Sherlock simply sighed.
"You've been indoors for weeks, let's go see the sun."
"What will the sun do to calm me?"
"Proven fact, sunlight helps with depression." Irene set down the book and opened the dust covered curtains. Sherlock shielded his eyes. "Let's go."
"I'm not dressed." Sherlock looked down at his grey sweatpants and oversized blue shirt.
"Get dressed, we can go for a walk."
Sherlock rolled of the couch and stumbled to the bedroom, he hadn't walked on hours and his legs were slightly numb. He changed into his black pants and purple button up shirt. He slipped into his coat and lightly wrapped his scarf. He stepped back into the flat.
"Now there's the Sherlock I like to see." Irene hugged him. "Let's go."
They walked for a while, in silence. Sherlock let the warm sun beat down on him as he listened to shouting children, barking dogs, and typical everyday life. He couldn't say he would miss it however. As they walked he grabbed Irene's hand. She turned to him and smiled. "Irene." Sherlock began, tears collecting in his eyes. "I know you care about me"
"I do" she nodded.
"And I know you want me happy."
"That too" she looked at him, confusion overwhelming her body.
"I'm not happy." He sighed.
"We can all tell." She gripped his hand tighter.
"I want to be happy."
Irene stopped walking and turned to face Sherlock. "How can I help?"
"Turn around and walk home, and let me do what I need to."
"No!" Irene hugged him. "I can't do that, I can't let you."
"Please Irene." he let a tear fall from his eye. "You're the only one I trust." He held both her hands. "Please Irene let me be happy." His eyes pleaded.
"I can't do that Sherlock."
"Please, turn around and walk away" he was completely serious. "Turn around and walk away or I will do it with you watching." He paused. "Please go."
Irene hugged Sherlock tight and stepped back. Tears flooded her eyes as she turned around and quickly walked away.
Sherlock cried silently, he walked the opposite way as her. He walked on until he arrived at an empty bridge. He stood on the ledge and watched the water crash about below him. His feet dangled over so slightly into the air. He smiled as the wind nipped at his face. Sherlock quietly said a prayer and asked for forgiveness from his remaining friends. He knew it would be devastating if he killed himself, but he knew they were all far stronger than him. And he could no longer take the pain, the loss, the heartbreak. He was being selfish, and for once he felt guilty about it. Sherlock reached in his pocket and took out the last of his morphine. He drank it in on swallow and waited for the effect to work. As the numbness slowly crept up his body Sherlock began to regret his decision, but as it reached his brain he couldn't complain, he could no longer resist. His body began to rock slowly back and forth. His head spun in circles as he fell forward into the icy water. The water flowed into his lungs as he struggled to save himself. He knew his decision was wrong, but the morphine stunned his body and the water was closing in. He sank into the water, letting the clear blue liquid take him away, take him to death.