He left the wedding early. Sherlock knows that John won’t notice, though. He has Mary now. He has everything he ever wanted. A wife, a baby. He doesn’t need Sherlock anymore. So he left. Sherlock walked out into the cold night and hailed a cab back toward Baker Street, away from the smiling faces that taunted his pain.
221b Baker Street never used to feel so cold, but as Sherlock ascended the stairs only the winter’s night greeted him. It was different now. Everything was different now. The warmth of the doctor doesn’t reach out to him anymore. It reaches to Mary.
Sherlock pushed open the door to the flat. His home was nothing more than four walls. Never again to be lit by John’s smile. The skull staring from the mantle screaming “You are dead to him! You are nothing more than dusty bones he used to know!” John’s chair set facing his, a blunt reminder that everyone leaves. That he is not worth their time. He is nothing but a tool to get them what they need. An adrenaline fix. A solved case. Someone to pay the rent. Someone to control. Worthless. Useless. Nobody.
Sherlock pushed John’s chair. Watching it fly across the room, overturning the stacks of books. John didn’t need him. John didn’t want him. John was better off without him anyway.
Better off without him. He was impulsive and rude. He was condescending and messy. He was uncaring and spiteful. He was…. He was not worth the honor to stand in even the shadow of John’s greatness.
Sherlock straitened his back and walked toward his room. No one needs you! He went to his closet pulling out disguise after disguise. Digging towards the bottom, towards the case buried at the bottom. A smooth wooden box. Wrapped in a bed sheet, under a pile of discarded shoes. You mean nothing to him! He set the box on his bed and turned back to the closet. He carefully placed each item back where it was and closed the door.
The box’s lid creaked when it opened. Not like a shrill screech of a backyard fence, but like an old door. Welcoming you back after you had been away so long. Your childhood room that defied the years and brings you back to easier times.
The syringe still gleamed like it was new. The glass, fingerprintless. The vial of amber offered a final resolution. Do it. No one will care. No one will notice. He picked up the syringe and filled it slowly, watching the liquid rush in. Like an hourglass counting down the hours. This would be enough to ease him into a mind numbing break, but he wanted more. He wanted oblivion. He kept filling. Come on! Do it! No more pain. No more feeling. The syringe was full and the vial was empty, his veins pumping for the welcomed rush.
With the syringe in one hand he stood and placed the empty box beneath his pillow. He walked from his room and up the worn stairs to the good doctor’s.
It still smelled like him. And his pillow, caressed Sherlock’s head the way its owner never did. The syringe weighed down his hand. Reminding him. He doesn’t love you. He left. John deserved better than him. Sherlock was a weight dragging him down. He would be happier if you were gone. Then he could have a real life. He holds John back. The needle pressed to his arm. He wasn’t aware of the movement, he was too lost. Free him of yourself. Just do it! The needle pressed in.
The rush burned his veins. Scraped at the lining. His mind burst into a sheen of white. But it didn’t last. The drugs pulled at his memories. Dragging the ones he would rather forget. John giggling at the crime scene just moments after saving his life. John smiling softly at him while he played the doctors favorite piece. John running through London with his hand warm against Sherlock’s. John telling Anderson off for called him names. John. John. John. John at his grave telling him he was the best and brightest. John calling him amazing right after he deduced his entire life. John healing his cuts and bruises with strong soft hands. John making his is favorite meals after a case finally ended. John who listened to him piece together a mystery. John who watched over and protected him. John the unassuming doctor with the soldier hidden under the jumpers.
The last thing Sherlock saw was John smiling up at him through his eyelashes and calling him amazing. The darkness converged over him and he fell into a slumber. The syringe dropped onto the bed. The tears and needle leaving track marks upon the broken body of a man no one thought could love.