Sherlock/Reader
The darkness stared back at you as you recounted past events. Moving in with Sherlock and John, solving cases, empathizing with clients, hiding feelings, repressing pent up emotions, fake smiling. With Sherlock and John being around, it was better. They made you feel happier than you had in years. Moriarty, bombs, the heist, the tall apartment building, the jump. A part of you died that day. The fall, the contact of body on pavement. You stared into the darkness, the scene playing out in front of you, almost like a short film. You’d never gotten the chance to tell the detective how you really felt about him, although, maybe it was a good thing. He would’ve never shared your feelings, he would’ve stared at you, eyes full of disapproval and disgust at the sign of emotions. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. The words echoed throughout your mind, Sherlock’s own words. The funeral, John moving out, Sherlock’s empty chair…… alone. You were completely and utterly alone. John never called, maybe because you made it seem like you were okay. Mrs. Hudson visited you sometimes, but she too couldn’t bear the sight of the apartment without Sherlock in it. They all left you, which of course was nothing new. It happened to you all the time. Everyone you loved eventually left you, whether that be your parents kicking you out because of drug use, your friends forgetting about you once they found their significant others, and now, the two people who you dared to love once again up and left. You were all alone, sitting on Sherlock’s cold, empty bed.
You stared out into the cold, dark abyss and felt for the metal box. Your fingers caressed the box, instantly chilled. Three years. That’s how long you had been clean. You hadn’t touched alcohol or drugs since then, mainly because self-harm did the trick. Were you willing to throw that all away now? Yes. The voice in your head goaded. Nobody even cared that you were clean. The voice spat, full of loathing. And, why would they? It questioned. You’re not special, no one will ever love someone like you, a failure. You’ve corrupted your body with scars, made yourself even uglier than you already were. You’ve- Shutting out the voice in your head you slowly opened the box. Inside was a pill and a syringe. Valium and ketamine. So, you did keep a stash. The voice said. Take them, embrace the numbness. You picked up the pill. Do it, relieve yourself. You needed to be numb, numb from the pain, the emotions. You brought the pill to your mouth. Taking a deep breath, you put the pill in your mouth and moved it around until it settled under your tongue. You rested your head against the bedframe and waited as the pill slowly dissolved. The voice was gone now, satisfied with what you were doing to yourself. Turning up your music, you waited. Five songs played before you felt it. You sighed deeply as the feeling of euphoria washed over you. It was a nice feeling, but not the one you wanted. You smiled as the music washed over you. No, keep going, this wasn’t what you wanted: happiness. The voice hissed in your ear. You don’t deserve happiness, you pathetic cunt. The voice screamed now. You reached into the box once more to pick up the syringe.
You turned it over in your hand, feeling like you had reunited with an old friend. The song ended when you stabbed the needle into your fleshy thigh, not bothering to figure out what dose you needed. You pulled the plunger back on instinct, even though it was too dark to see if there was any blood in the syringe. You didn’t care if there was or not. You depressed the syringe, shooting the liquid into your body. A few minutes passed before you finally felt it. Staring into the darkness, time seemed to slow down, seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. You sighed deeply, relishing in the feeling of nothing, no emotions, no pain. You tilted your head back slightly as another song came on. Concentrating on the music, you let everything else slip away.
You were fine for a while until you noticed yourself getting tired. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Your eyelids drooped just at it started to get hard to breathe. You’re dying. The voice in your head said, sounding horrified, almost as if your subconscious didn’t want to die. Maybe because it didn’t want to stop torturing you. You dumb fuck, the voice screamed at you, you didn’t measure it, call 911! You were right, it didn’t want to die, but in the moment, you did. Closing your eyes, you welcomed death and grabbed his cold hand. Don’t kill me, you stupid bitch! The voice screamed again. You smiled. Out of nowhere, someone shook you, making you let go of death’s hand. A horrific thought crossed your mind; Mrs. Hudson had found you. You tried to open your eyes to see who it was. The light had been turned on and it blinded you. The person tried to talk to you, but it was like you were under water. The one thing you could discern was that it was a man’s voice. The next thought that you had was that it was John. Your death would fuck him up even more than he already was. Naturally, you were being too empathetic; you would feel terrible for making anyone sad, but in that moment, you couldn’t empathize. You were too far gone for that now. You heard the voice again, feeling arms wrap around you.
“(Y/N),” You made out, finally able to see who it was. “Stay with me.” Hallucinating must have been a side effect of overdosing because who you saw could never actually be there. You brought your hand up to his face, touching warm flesh. It couldn’t be. He was dead, you saw him die. It couldn’t be, couldn’t be…. Sherlock. He picked you up and started to run, the nearest hospital a twenty-minute drive away. He would never make it before you died. How? How could he be alive? So many questions ran through her fading consciousness. Down the stairs, Sherlock ran, almost falling from carrying your weight. Getting to the bottom of the stairs, another pair of hands grasped you. Out the door, into a vehicle. You could feel death’s pull, stealing the warmth from your body, your soul. You didn’t know how any of this could be real. Sherlock was dead, you saw it. You forced your eyes open again, to confirm his existence one more time. You looked up from your position on his lap to see him staring down at you, eyes fully of worry, distress even. You tried to say his name but only garbbled mumbles left your mouth. You felt something poke you and wondered what they could possibly do. Sherlock grabbed your hands and held them tightly, restoring some of the heat that death had taken from you.
“We will make it Sherlock.” You heard someone, Mycroft, say. You tried to look to confirm your thoughts but you couldn’t really move. You looked back to Sherlock.
“(Y/N), please don’t die.” You hear him say, his voice sounding distant. Why didn’t he want you to die? Could he actually share the same feelings you had for him? The thought of this made you fight death’s cold grasp.
“Sher-“ You tried to say his name.
“It’s okay.” He whispered, holding you closer. The car came to an abrupt stop and they hauled you out. You could vaguely make out the hospital sign. They had made it. You heard the sliding of automatic doors and frantic voices. You were set on a bed. So many voices. You could only pick out one, Sherlock’s. Forcing your eyes open one last time, you saw him leaning over you. “Please don’t die, I couldn’t picture the world without you.” He whispered and planted a kiss on your cheek. That was the last thing you saw and heard before they rushed you away before you blacked out. The last thought you had was that you were going to fight, not for yourself this time, but for Sherlock.
When you woke, you were laying in Sherlock’s bed. Confused, you sat up and thought, had this all been a bad trip? Did you hallucinate it all? You expected the voice in your head to make a snide comment, but none came. Hello? She prompted, but no reply came. Had the voice died when you had overdosed? How had you survived if Sherlock hadn’t actually come to your rescue? There were so many questions that were left unanswered until she sat up. On the edge of the bed was Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. So, he had been there. The thought lifted your spirits as you grabbed his coat and hugged it to your chest. You also noticed that under his jacket was the scarf that he would always wear. Picking it up you saw something flutter to the ground, a piece of paper. You leaned over the bed and picked it up to see Sherlock's messy writing. It said,
I’m sorry for causing you so much pain. I never wanted to hurt you. If you are going back to drugs, please be careful to take the right amount. I may not be there to save you next time and I would be distraught if you died. I have to confess that what I feel for you is nothing that I have ever felt before. It’s quite disconcerting actually. I’ve tried to ignore the feeling, run away from it, but it's so persistent. I know you have empathy problems and you think it makes you weak, but you’re wrong. It’s what makes you strong and unique. It’s what makes you, you. I will come back eventually (Y/N) after I finish dispatching Moriarty’s crime ring. Please try not to hurt yourself anymore. You deserve the best, and maybe I will be able to give it to you.
SH
You sat in shock. Partially from learning that Sherlock was actually alive, but mostly from the honesty of his note. He would’ve never said something that honest, that heartfelt. You sat there for a long while, staring at the note. You could do this, now that you knew there was something to look forward to. Someone who cares about you. You hugged Sherlock’s jacket to your chest and fell back asleep.