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After the death of his father, John swore that he would never let anyone he loved die if he could do anything to prevent it.
A difficult task, but a reason worth living for.
Before Sherlock, he had no one to devote his time to. If he were desperate enough then he could go back to living with his mother, but he seriously doubted that Carol, being the grown woman that she is, would want to care for him throughout his adult years.
John had already troubled her enough, and he wouldn't want to make her go through it all over again.
So he stuck with Sherlock.
John didn't stay just because he needed someone to make his life meaningful - no, that wasn't the case, - John genuinely enjoyed going on adventures and solving cases with the detective. He liked being able to help people and ease their worries, to acquire the truth while delivering justice.
It was a routine based lifestyle: Wake up, brush teeth, eat breakfast, edit an episode if needed, walk Archie, await a new client, meaning a new case.
Everything was exceptional, and John felt content with his position in life. He wouldn't have it any other way.
That was true, and were to remain as such. That is, until Mary Morstan came along.
The whole of her being fascinated him, it was something that John couldn't accurately describe if asked to. Mary was a wonderful person. Funny, brave, different. Maybe that's what really reeled him in, the way that she wasn't like the others.
It wasn't like she was special. No, everyone was human, and everyone was alike in some way or another. Although, Mary was more outstanding than anyone John had ever seen. Sherlock had his own skills that were impressive, such as being able to deduce a person's entire life story merely by the way they held themselves up, or having the knowledge of a professor on any topic one could think of. John was enthralled with his work more often than not.
But virtually everyone was. Sherlock was recognized around the globe, whether it were clients or listeners. Mary wasn't, and John felt privileged to have had the chance to meet her.
The world could have Sherlock Holmes as long as John Watson could have Mary Morstan.
John cared about Mary, he loved her, and he wasn't sure in what way but all he knew was that he loved her. It didn't have to be romantic, it could be purely platonic and John would still give his heart and soul for her.
Mary was the object of John's attention, and time would tell if that were a mistake.
The flat was disturbingly silent.
John stumbled across the wooden floor, holding onto the wall as he made his way to his room. Each of his footsteps were too loud, a stark contrast to the quiet. Sherlock was out doing goodness knows what, meaning that there would be no untimely violin playing in the middle of the night.
Under normal circumstances, John would have been grateful. Although, tonight was anything but normal and he wouldn't complain if Sherlock were to play one of his concertos in forte to drown out his and John's thoughts.
Nothing could make John's head pound harder than it already was. He felt like it would explode within minutes, and the alcohol in his system was not helping.
Putting one foot in front of the other, John managed to reach the door. Turning the knob, he walked into his room, shutting the door behind him before slumping against it. Each act was second nature by now. It had started to be since John found that alcohol was one of the best, if not the best, ways to avoid his feelings.
Looking down at his hands, he couldn't shake the vision of Mary's blood splattered against his skin. He couldn't forget the way that the crimson fluid stained his pale hands, haunting him every day since. It didn't have to turn out that way.
He could have done something. He should have done something. He was a doctor for crying out loud, it was his job and he had spent hours in training, dedicating time to the craft. Now it felt like it was all for nothing, like it had all gone to waste. This one loss outweighed all the wins.
Feeling a drop roll down his cheek, John raised a hand to his face, wiping away the tear. In spite of his disregard, more continued to spill. His own body mocked his efforts, poking fun at his attempts of normalcy.
His legs began to ache, signaling that it was best to lay down and go to bed. For which was better than possibly falling asleep on the floor, where it would look like he were dead.
Taking a deep breath, John pushed himself off the floor with a groan. Still unable to carry his weight, he used the wall as a support yet again as he pulled his body up.
It was dark as not a single ray of moonlight dared make its way into his bedroom. The room was devoid. Of what he couldn't quite make out, but it was empty and John could find no comfort in staying in it. There was no where else to go, though, so he'd have to deal with it the best he could.
Finally at the side of his bed, John sat down unable to find it in himself to go to sleep right away. It was warm, too warm. Maybe if he opened a window it would help him cool down. With reluctance, John stood up once more, wondering why he even bothered to sit if he was going to stand up immediately afterwards. Nonetheless, he scuffed over to the window, too tired to worry about picking his feet up.
It took a moment to brace his arms, and when he did he pushed the glass up with a single swift movement. Expecting cold relief, John was terribly disappointed when he saw that the night was as humid as ever. Instead of it providing reprieve, he felt his clothes stick to his skin worse than before, worsening his existing frustration.
Why couldn't things go his way for once? Why did he always have to be the one to adjust, why couldn't others be willing to accommodate for him as he was for them?
Life was unfair and John acknowledged that more than anyone, but what he hadn't realized was that life was an actual living hell. Seemingly only for him, too.
Leaning over, John stuck his head out the window, looking down at the alleyway below. It was a far drop. He held the irrational fear of falling down, but realistically the window wasn't large enough to let him through since it stopped at a certain point.
It was only a glimpse to the outside, not an exit.
But if he did want to open it completely then he would have to unscrew the nails, which was too much work. Besides, there was no where to go after. Just down. That would be an awful way to go. However, any way was grim. Death was no light topic, and John tried not to think about it quite that often.
Yet today, it was all that occupied his mind.
The death of his fallen comrades, of his and Sherlock's unfortunate cases, of Mary. Of the false hope the world had given him that she would be alright. He truly believed it when he saw her talking and laughing, when they were all conversing of Stamford and Nadia's engagement. All of them. Mariana, Sherlock, Stamford, he, and Mary.
The tears commenced anew, falling on the desk positioned in front of the window where John had his hands placed. They stung this time around, leaving an offensive, burning sensation behind.
Crying was meant to be a way to release endorphins and oxytocin, both natural chemicals which acted as mood-boosters and pain-relievers. Sherlock had told him that, probably. But neither of the two chemicals were doing their job, making them counterproductive. At the moment, they only served to make John feel poorer, as he couldn't control his tears.
He wondered if Mary had moments like these where she would let herself crumble under the weight of her problems. Unlike John, she most likely had better ways to deal with her emotions, not resorting to liquor. Who could blame him, though? It didn't help John acknowledge his thoughts in the slightest, but it served as a numbing. Briefly shielding him from reality.
That was the problem, though. Briefly, not permanently. The pain would always find a way to seep back into his body, to continue ruining his life. John was sick of it. He was sick of having to drag himself out of his room and into the streets, his legs systematically journeying to the local pub, having the route memorized.
There was no point in repeating the same cycle every day. It did him no good to go out and get plastered midday just to come back home feeling hollow and meaningless at night.
Then, the thought came to mind:
He didn't have to keep living like this. He didn't have to do anything he didn't want to.
Surely there was a way to stop it, to make the numbness long-lasting - even permanent.
In the corner of his eye, John spotted an old, half-filled prescription bottle. It was from his last visit to the pharmacy after returning from war. They were opioid tablets to ease his pain from being unceremoniously blown up. He'd kept them as memorabilia, even if it was strange. Thank goodness he did, as they seemed to be of value at the moment.
John Watson was now and again a scaredy cat, but he was not a coward. Of course he would occasionally be frightened during a case, but he never backed down and refused to do things that he knew were for a good cause. He was capable of taking responsibility, and it had always been a trait he admired himself on.
If he were to die then he would want it to happen in a deserving manner. Slow and painful, not quick and painless. He knew fully well that Mary's death wasn't hurried. She was condemned to the hospital for a week, suffering painfully. It should have been him.
It should have been me.
Without another hitch of hesitation, John reached out to grab the bottle, opening it. There clearly weren't enough to do the damage he sought. He would have to rummage through his room to find a sufficient amount, but that would take too long. Scanning the room, he noticed a beer can he hadn't cared to throw away. Perfect, his former self was preparing the scene for him without even knowing it.
Opioids and alcohol were a doctor's worst nightmare, but right now it was John's escape from the inferno called Earth. It also fit his criteria of a gradual death.
With the bottle in hand, John went to his bedside dresser, setting it down and picking up the can to inspect it. The beer inside was flat. John guessed it probably lost all its air a few hours ago. That didn't matter though, as it would still do the trick, flat or not.
The idea of writing a note dawned on him , but he wasn't even sure himself why he was doing this. Maybe it was the guilt from Mary's death, or perhaps he'd just gotten tired of living a miserable life. Mariana and Sherlock had both done an amazing job at helping him stay longer than he'd intended, but there was nothing they could do to stop John's inevitable demise. They could only postpone it for so long before their efforts were in vain.
John worried about his two friends potentially blaming themselves, so he was determined to scribble down at least a sentence or two saying that it wasn't their fault and that he was grateful for their friendship. A text would've sufficed, but that would mean alerting them and derailing everything.
Grabbing a pen from his drawer, John picked out a piece of paper and quickly began to jot down his thoughts. He knew that he made several grammar mistakes in his short speech, but it didn't matter when it was his last words. Maybe his prior English teachers would have mercy on him for not using the proper version of "a" and failing to cut down his run-on sentences.
When finished, John set the pen down, reading through his writing. It was less than perfect, but it would be enough. It had to be enough.
Twisting off the cap, he poured a tablet into the palm of his hand. It felt weird knowing that a thing so small could do so much damage to an organism as large as the human body. It shouldn't have been possible, but logic liked to work weirdly.
He popped the tablet into his mouth, taking a small sip of the beer afterward. The bitter taste lingered in his mouth, attacking every tastebud, an all too familiar feeling.
At first he took each tablet individually with its own mouthful of alcohol, and then he progressed to handfuls with chugging. It did not take long as both the bottle and can were half empty when he started.
If he were lucky enough then the effects would begin to take place within a few minutes.
Having fulfilled his task, John took a shaky breath and threw the can and bottle off to the side, going back to his bed. There was no other reason to stand up, so he laid down, resting assured that he could await his fate peacefully. Or as peaceful as it could get when ending his own life.
Not wanting to wait for his vision to give out, John closed his eyes. He was nervous. There was no knowing of what came after death. He tried to think of other things while the medication and liquor slowly depressed his central nervous system with doubled strength.
Mainly, he thought about Sherlock. Would he be sad to find that his best friend killed himself? No, what a stupid question. He would definitely be sad. Sherlock Holmes wasn't immune to emotions, despite what people said. He too was a human that shared sentiments. Anger, happiness, sadness. The only difference was that he had another way of expressing them, and that was okay.
It was okay and John wouldn't have him any other way.
Suddenly, a wave of shame washed over John. Was it selfish to go out this way, knowing that contrary to his personal belief, the people around him did care for him and would be devastated at the news of his death? Was it rude to have pushed Sherlock away when he put in the effort to cheer him up? And was he in the wrong for jeopardizing their company by isolating himself and refusing to work on any cases?
For a brief moment, John thought about saving himself. He still had the time to make himself vomit what he took, to call an ambulance for himself. Even though he wanted to, his body refused. When he went to sit up, his muscles worked against him.
Well, that was that, then. He was going to die, and he was going to regret every last second of it. It isn't until the body is in true danger when one comes to realize how great life is and how awesome friends and family one has.
This time, when John wanted to open his eyes, it made no difference. Black blotches assaulted his field of view while his eyelids drooped, then he was forced to close them once more. People described death as seeing the light, an invitation to the pearly gates, yet John could account that there was no such thing. There was no comforting feel that told him he lived his life the best he could; Instead, there was that horrifying realization that he'd just thrown it all away.
With fear sometimes came delirium. John wasn't sure whether he imagined it - though there was a slight creak of the door hinges - the old, rusty metal screeching at the motion of the door being opened. He then remembered he had forgotten to lock the door. Now, he was convinced it wasn't his imagination.
Hope filled his heart. Maybe, just maybe he would survive, and this time he would appreciate all the little things he was too incognizant to have not noticed before.
A faint ringing invaded his ears, amplifying at a rapid speed, making it hard to discern the voice that was either speaking to or at him.
With one last shallow, wheezing gasp, John drifted off into the obscurity of unconsciousness.