Hello all!

Just a quick drabble that popped into my head and refused to go away – possibly more chapters in the future, possible slash later on (this is my first slash fanfic, so go easy on me!)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock or John. More's the pity. We could have such fun together.

Warnings: Angst, foul language, and graphic suicide-ness – sorry!

Sherlock

The flat is quiet. Too quiet.

Not the peaceful, good, companionable silence, when John is typing his blog, and I am thinking or pretending to sleep or watching him type just because it makes me feel oddly peaceful.

Not the silence when John knows I am trying to figure out a particularly complicated mystery, and is waiting with bated breath for my brain to produce the answer to whatever riddle has been set before us.

Not even the bad silence, when I have upset John and he isn't talking to me, because even then I know that he will come downstairs after a while and somehow we will be friends again.

It is quiet because John has left me.

I don't know what I've done, but he has packed all his jumpers and his jeans and his laptop into suitcases, and he has gone to the other side of London, to 'get some space'. I know it is stupid and childish and illogical, but I like John being here, like the fact that someone can put up with me as a flatmate after all, that there is someone on this God-forsaken earth who doesn't think I am a psychopath or a liar or freak.

Except that now he is gone.

Before I met John, I thought my life was perfectly satisfactory. I liked the silence. I liked the solitude.

And then John arrived, and filled a hole in my life that I had never even known existed. I laughed with him, watched rubbish television with him, and we saved each other's lives on a weekly basis.

And now he's gone, and the hole is gaping in my chest, and it hurts more than I thought something could hurt.

I don't know why it does, I don't understand, but it is horrible and I feel sick and I just want him back now and I will try and make him tea and he will pretend to like it and pour it over Mrs. Hudson's aspidistra when he thinks I am not looking.

I pull my hair, which hurts, but it isn't the same kind of hurt, and I just want to make it stop but John threw away my cocaine. And I hate him because I want the pain to stop and he got rid of the drugs so I can't stop it, and if he hadn't turned up in the first place with his ridiculous jumpers and his psychosomatic limp then I wouldn't be feeling this in the first place.

I know full well that John should be dull, should be boring, should be too pedestrian to even register in my brain. But he isn't, and all I want is to see him again and shout at him to fetch my phone which it's barely inches from me and watch that world-weary smile grace his countenance.

I should know that no one could ever care about me, because I have acted the role of the high-functioning sociopath for so long that I have forgotten the difference between the pretence and the reality. Because I am obnoxious and rude and worthless. I am pathetic and useless and nothing. Normally I am arrogant and I don't care what people think of me, but now I feel horribly vulnerable.

I don't like other people. They are boring or stupid or both. Some of them, like Anderson, hate me because I am cleverer than them, and I hate them back. Lestrade tolerates me because I am useful to him, and good for his crime statistics that he sends off to Head Office. Mycroft is forced to care because he'd made that stupid promise to our mother on her deathbed. Molly cares because she still holds that ridiculous infatuation for me, which I do my best to discourage, because decisions shouldn't be based on emotion, they should be based on reason and feelings affect the brain.

Why am I feeling this way? Why am I going to pieces over such a stupid, boring ex-soldier with a tremor in his hand?

I answer my own question.

Because he is my only friend.

And the knowledge that he doesn't care about me after all is like a knife in my stomach.

I lie on the sofa, and close my eyes, until the hurt fades a little. I feel strangely disembodied. Thoughts swirl in my heads like confused eddies of water. I don't want to go on like this, with this pain, with this horrible throbbing in my head. Life is dull, dull, dull – a terrible monotony that frustrates me and drains my life away. And now, without John, I am not sure if I can be bothered to solve cases for people who openly despise me, not sure I can bear to be insulted by Anderson and Donovan again because of what a freak I am.

I stand slowly and fetch a sheet of notepaper from my desk.

John

I feel bad – of course I do. I feel awful. I don't want to leave him, but to remain in the flat, feeling the way I feel… It wouldn't work, and I don't want to lose our friendship through a moment's stupidity. It's for the best. I know I could never explain it to him, so I haven't tried. I had just said something about needing some space, and left before he could talk me out of it with his penetrating blue-green-grey stare.

How could I have explained to him that my heartbeat accelerates whenever I see him? How could I tell him that my breath catches in my throat when he fixes me with those piercing eyes? How could I announce that all I want to do sometimes is to hold him in my arms and nuzzle my face in his coal-black curls? He wouldn't understand, and I know all too well that he has never had a proper friend before, like alone been in a romantic relationship. I can't push him into something like that.

I look down at the photograph that is sitting on the kitchen table of my new flat beside me. Sherlock doesn't know I have taken it. I had been pretending to be an American tourist during the Case of the Disillusioned Accountant, and was therefore randomly snapping away while keeping an eye out for suspects – Sherlock had assured me that the killer was six feet tall with a limp. And when I had been idly flicking back through the photographs later on that evening, once the murderer was safely behind bars, I had found that one of my pictures was a perfect shot of Sherlock. His raven hair was half over his face, his brow furrowed with concentration, his eyes burning, his skin paper-white, looking gaunter than ever.

He is beautiful.

Somehow the revelation that I am, at the very least, bisexual, has not hit me as hard as I had expected it to. What had bothered me is that it is with Sherlock whom I have become infatuated. Not that I am surprised. He is undoubtedly a very attractive man, and that isn't even allowing for the fact that he is also dazzlingly intelligent.

But the point is that I know my feelings for Sherlock will never be reciprocated. Ever. Simply because I know he just doesn't do those kind of feelings. Not that he is a sociopath – I had quickly established that that was simply an act to make sure people kept their distance from him – but he is immensely cautious of any social interaction, any physical contact. I would greet any other of my friends with a handshake at the very least, and possibly even a hug. I dread to think what Sherlock's reaction would be if I were to try and hug him. He would probably throw me across the room in self-defence – the man is deceptively strong, despite his waif-like frame, and I have no doubt that he would be perfectly capable of doing so.

I rub my face with my hands thoughtfully. I know that Sherlock cares about me – his reaction after Moriarty had left the swimming pool for the first time had proven that to me, and his relief when Mycroft and half of MI5 had burst in before he had had to blown us all up was obvious. For a few days after the pool episode, he had been a little quiet and subdued. I had wondered if was analysing how and where Moriarty had escaped to, or whether he was pondering how close we had both come to death.

I realise that sitting here for hours on end thinking about my ex-flatmate really isn't helpful, and decide to unpack some of my stuff, which still sits in boxes about my new living room. It is cold and lonely, and completely free of both any dubious chemistry-related equipment and lanky consulting detectives overdosing on coffee.

I finish unpacking the files of notes I have made on Sherlock's cases and look around for the black suitcase in which I had placed all my clothes. I cannot see it, and begin searching more methodically.

Finally, I swear under my breath. I must have left it in my room back in Baker Street. I consider my options. I will need to go and get it at some point, and I feel that biting the bullet immediately will be less awful

Sighing, I pull on my coat and call a cab.

Sherlock

The bath water is warm, and I relax into it, staring up at the ceiling.

It will be an experiment, I tell myself. An investigation.

I pick up the knife.

John

I unlock the door and peer in cautiously. The flat is silent, and Sherlock is apparently out on a case. I don't know whether to be glad that he isn't here so I don't have to endure the inevitable confrontation and interrogation, or sad that I won't get the opportunity to see his face again. I decide it will be best just to sneak upstairs, get my case, and flee back to 37 Banbury Way.

That's when I se the note on the table.

For some reason, I feel compelled to look at it – I want to hear Sherlock's voice again, even if only on paper.

To Mrs. Hudson,

If my estimations are correct then you will find this note on Wednesday evening at approximately 6pm. I can assure you that by this time it will all be over, and only ask you to contact the necessary authorities. I would also warn you please not to go upstairs, as I have no wish to cause you further distress. I would be most grateful if you were to notify John of my death – his number is below. Thank you for everything, and don't worry – I have already paid this month's rent into your account. This is for the best.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes.

I go completely cold. It is as if a lead weight has been dropped into my stomach. For a second I remain completely frozen, and then my unwilling legs leap into action.

"Sherlock! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…"

I scramble upstairs, cursing in desperation, and wrench open the door of his room. It is in its normal state of chaos, but is completely Sherlock-free. I pause for a mere fraction of a second, and then see that the light in the bathroom is on.

"Oh God, please, no…"

I go to open the door, but it has been bolted from the inside. Cursing frantically, I ram it with my shoulder, sending a bolt of searing pain through the injured flesh. The door bursts open, and I stumble in.

Sherlock.

Lying in the bath, fully dressed, save for his shoes, which he has neatly removed and placed on the lid of the toilet seat. I realise that he hadn't wanted to subject himself to the final indignity of being found naked.

Ebony curls float about his face like a halo, his face paler than ever, his eyes closed, as if he is sleeping.

Both of his wrists have been slashed, from his palm to the inside of his elbow – foul gaping wounds on his too-thin limbs.

The bath is full of a mixture of tepid water and his blood.

"Fuck, no, please, no…"

My breathing is ragged; I feel sick and weak, falling to my knees beside him, one hand fumbling for a pulse, the other pulling my mobile from my pocket.

"Yes, yes, I need an ambulance… It's my flatmate, he's slashed his wrists, oh fuck, oh God…"

I can't find a pulse, and my hands are covered in Sherlock's blood…

"Is he breathing?"

"I don't know, I…"

There. Stop. Wait. Is that just my own pulse beating in my fingers? No. Very weak and thready, but it is there.

"Oh thank God… I've got a pulse…"

I feel faint and dizzy, my head spinning.

There is so much blood and it is all my fault…

I realise the operator is talking to me again.

"Can you give me the address you're at now, please, sir?"

"221B Baker Street – please come quickly!"

I throw the phone to the floor, ignoring the woman's faint, tinny voice, and wrench off my jacket, clamping it around Sherlock's left arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding. I try to raise it up in the air to minimise the blood loss, but the bath water sloshes and his face is pushed under the water.

I seize him by the armpits and pull him clumsily from the bath, slopping red water everywhere. He hardly weighs anything, and I wonder vaguely when was the last time that he ate. He stirs very slightly, and I find myself talking rapidly to him, gibbering nonsense as I try to bind up his arm with my jacket.

"It's all right, Sherlock, you'll be all right, you're OK…"

His eyes don't open. "Leave me…" he whispers, and I am shocked at how weak his voice is.

"No, I won't, I…"

"I want to die." The words are said with such finality, his voice so clear and quiet, that it breaks my heart.

"No, for fuck's sake, Sherlock!"

I pull off my shirt as well, tie that about his right arm, and yank both arms up at right angles to his body, hoping, praying with every fibre of my being that it will stop the bleeding.

Let it not be too late.

He can't die here.

I know it's not my best, and it's certainly not at all polished as I wrote it in one sitting and my proof-reading can be dodgy at best (not to mention that I reckon both of them are more than verging on being terribly OOC), but inspiration struck and I had to act on it! Sorry for how convoluted Sherlock's piece is at the beginning; it was just how I imagined his thoughts working.

Should I bother with another chapter? Please review and tell me what you thought! xxx