Chapter Text
"....They take you to a special room and burn you."
"I will burn you.. I will burn the heart out of you."
To his calculated mind, that was often going off the track, he felt it specifically one course as he held the slightly wrinkled paper in his hands.
"Dear Sherlock, I have waited three years. Three bloody long years. At first, I thought you would come back, but the years wore on and..and..I began to doubt my eyes, and what I saw, and just..I lost that glimmering hope. Others have tried to help me, but I shout or threaten at them, and they gave up pretty fast. It's just..life. It's nothing anymore. I..can't do this anymo-"
He knew it was his fault. He knew he had pushed John to the point of hopelessness. He knew that John's hope and belief in him were not that strong. The flat was silent, suffocating. Dusty. Empty. Whispering secrets that Sherlock wanted to ignore. He pressed his forehead to his hands, covering his eyes, trying to block out the stories of the life of John that spoke all around him. the places where he had hidden cigarettes. The places where he had spilled tea on the rug. Where said mug had shattered, and all the pieces still lying previously unfound.
Sherlock leaned over and started to pick them up, one by one. They felt sharp, but the pain distracted him from the stories.
The floor's squeak was too loud as he walked to the kitchen to dump the shards in the bin. He swallowed hastily as he saw the kitchen was hardly lived in. There was more dust in here; John must have forgotten to eat frequently during the three years.
His microscope was dusty, and he blew it off before continuing around and checking his chemicals. None seemed to be missing.... a few were broken, the dried crust lying around it. Some of his equipment showed sign of breaking, and he even noticed drops of brownish-red.
John's blood.
Not knowing what caused him to do it, Sherlock noticed he was hugging himself and shivering slightly, despite his coat.
This silence is agonizing.
He walked over to a lamp, turning it on only to turn it off again, the stories screaming out at him.
You shot the wall?
The piece of paper from that photo web is still stuck on that nail.
Cigarette ashes.
And even worse, the ones he hadn't been there for. John's life as he lived alone.
More pronounced bullet holes that he must have shot, the bullet holes forming a frown on the smiley face.
His heart contracting with pain, Sherlock walked fearfully to the drawer. He took a deep breath and opened it.
The gun is still here. Fully loaded, not a bullet missing. Shows signs of use, very shiny.
Sherlock picked it up, weighing it in his hands. He quickly put it down and shoved the drawer closed as he realized the thought he had thought when he had reached down to take it.
I can't believe this.
He stalked back to his lab, grabbing the chemicals he knew were lethal. He clumsily mixed them together, cursing when he spilled.
Eventually, he stood staring at the beaker, a deep, poisonous green. With shaking hands he lifted it, and was about to tip it back when footsteps sounded. He froze. And listened.
He was about to tip it back again when the door banged open and Lestrade stormed in.
"Bloody Hell, Sherlock. Don't drink that. Don't you dare drink that."
"I'm sorry Lestrade," he said as he tipped the glass back.