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The Waters of Depression	By : FairyBean Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2564 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, I do not Profit from this writing and do not know or own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson or any of the other characters used in this work. I also do not own Sherlock (BBC) franchise or anything related to it.

Chapter List
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Well, Hello again. This started out as a Sherlock suicide oneshot, but it got longer, so I thought I would see if any of you folks enjoyed reading it. :)
Disclaimer: No money is made from this fic, and I do not own the characters used within. They belong to their respective writers, creators and actors. :)
Summary: Sherlock tries to end it all after John leaves to cool his head. Will this selfish act force the pair to consider their feelings for each other, and have something deeper.

The water was cold again, his brain registered the thought and deleted it along with all those other things he didn’t need to know, like who was Prime Minister or whether the Earth orbited the Sun. The fact of the matter was that he was out of beer, again.
He threw the bottle he was holding across the bathroom to clatter with the others and the water sloshed out of the bath and onto the floor, once again soaking the matt, and the six or seven towels that were piled on top of it from last time that happened. His hand groped around and instead of the bottle neck it was looking for (he knew there had been a bottle of some foul tasting stuff left there before when he had decided not to drink it) his hand came into contact with a black case.
He stilled, the water settling around his thinly muscled frame, waiting to see what his brain would come up with. It had been whimsy to bring this here, or at least it wasn’t a conscious thought he remembered having. John would hate it if he-
But that was just it, John was no longer there, John Hamish Watson was out of his life for good it seemed. He lifted the case, balancing it on the edge of the bath he had been in for two days, as his miraculous brain replayed every detail of the fight.
John walked in with shopping bags, his cheeks ruddy from the cold but that was always a good look for him. The case file had been spread across the table, Sherlock himself bent over the pictures. Not an unusual occurrence but today John was different.
“I got a call from Lestrade,” he said softly as he put the bags down and began to put away the things without a single complaint. Sherlock should have picked up on that. The lack of comment on his inept living skills or his lack of offer to help with the shopping should have had alarm bells ringing. As it was Sherlock just murmured something unintelligible and kept looking at the photos. “Sherlock.”
The voice stilled him, not so much because John had said his name, as the fact that he had placed a hand upon the picture Sherlock was studying. “Sherlock you…are you alright?”
Sherlock blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked carefully. There was something in John’s eyes that he couldn’t deduce, and that was worrying.
“Why?...Dear God Sherlock are you serious?” John asked and by his face Sherlock knew that he wasn’t really asking but wanted some reply all the same. “It’s your- I mean you knew him Sherlock!” John stuttered in way of continuing when Sherlock hadn’t replied. “That’s –“
“A dead body,” Sherlock overrode him. Yes it was someone he had known. A fencing partner from back in University but what did it matter? He was dead now and they hadn’t been friends, Sherlock had sparse few of that commodity, but they had gotten on well enough.
“Sherlock that’s!” John was angry. “A body?” he asked and his fists clenched. “So if it was me lying there, or Molly, or Mycroft!? Would we just be another case to you, just dead bodies, another part to your puzzle?”
“Well of course you’d be dead bodies John, I don’t see what-” but he stopped because John was shaking with suppressed rage and hurt. Sherlock could see the hurt but he didn’t know what had caused it. Then John had punched him and left.
He raised a hand to his jaw where a bruise had formed and was now fading. He didn’t care that it hurt, it was a connection to John. He paused with the needle from the case in his fingers, the little bottle in his other hand, he had only injected once before, and Mycroft had been there to save him. This time he knew no one would come. This time he would die.
He didn’t understand why he didn’t care more about that. He surely would have before. The small glass vial tumbled from his fingers to smash on the bathroom floor, the needle following as a sob escaped the lips of Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective.
*
He didn’t know if it was hours or days when he woke again, this time the water was freezing so he pulled the plug and started to rerun some hot water into the tub. He had no intention of getting out and as he watched the water refill the bath he wondered what it would be like to drown. He took the last of the coke he had in the little silver packet by his feet, knowing by the taste of his mouth he had woken sometime between dropping the needle and now and had smoked something not quite regulation.
The drugs didn’t take long, only the best for Sherlock Holmes, and soon he was seeing colours brighter than ever, and as he sunk under the water with one last breath he realised he wouldn’t mind leaving this life. After all it was so empty without his John. He chuckled at that and then watched in awe as multi coloured neon bubbles rose from his mouth, and water rushed in to fill their place.
*
John stood for a second at the doorway to the bathroom, before Lestrade pushed him in the back to see what was going on. Then John was moving, his arms, covered by the sleeves of his shirt and jacket plunged into the water as Greg pulled out his phone and dialled for an ambulance. He looked around and saw the little pieces of foil, the smashed bottle and the needle and shook his head. “He will need substance treatment. I don’t know how much he’s taken or how long he’s been here. Hurry.”
He turned but John was hauling Sherlock from the bath, his skin was oh so pale and his breathing non-existent. John started to pump his heart, to breathe into his mouth and Lestrade covered him over with a towel around his waist. “John, he’s taken something. He might have fallen to sleep here and-”
“Don’t!” John warned, he knew what had happened “He’s been here days, look at this place. Don’t tell me he didn’t do this on purpose. He got high and killed himself. Just like the selfish prick he is!” he snarled as he again pumped on Sherlock’s chest. He wasn’t going to give up until someone made him. He wasn’t going to lose him, not after all they had been through, not like this. “Breathe god dammit Sherlock, breathe!”
John heard the ambulance siren, knew Lestrade went downstairs to answer the door before they knocked and he knew that Mrs. Hudson was asking all sorts of worried questions but he didn’t care. It was information he didn’t need right now. He just wanted Sherlock to breathe.
There was a scream as Mrs. Hudson saw the scene and John growled. “Lestrade!”
The DI got the little woman out of the way as the ambulance men came with a stretcher. John knew it was almost hopeless, he had been gone too long but he couldn’t stop. One of the ambulance crew, a big lad, pulled him gently away.
“You do everything alright!” John shouted as Sherlock was taken from him. “Everything!”
Lestrade came to him then and the paramedic put him down, nodded solemnly to the DI before leaving the room. John moved to follow.
“Come on, with me. We will escort them there,” Greg said softly and helped John out of the house. The shock was setting in. Sherlock had killed himself. Sherlock had committed suicide right there in their house. In their bathroom. John didn’t know how to deal with that right now. He had been angry, he had stormed out after hitting him and he had stayed with Greg for those few days but he didn’t expect to come home and find this as the sight that would greet his eyes. He knew Sherlock would be grumpy, but he didn’t think that he would be so evasive or that he would see this fight as some kind of ending. But that was Sherlock Holmes, his mind told him. This was what Sherlock did.
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The Waters of Depression