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The obnoxious sound of the alarm blared through the small speakers of the device, shattering the previously silent atmosphere. It barely elicited a flinch from the tall, curly-haired man sitting in the stairwell. Sherlock knew he should’ve been asleep, or at least in bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not without John there. Never without John there.
His refusal of sleep in the absence of his partner was reflected in dark circles from days of surviving on no more than 3 hours a night. He hated sleeping when John wasn’t there, so he didn’t.
5:55 AM.
John should’ve been there, but he wasn’t. He was supposed to arrive at Baker Street precisely two hours ago, at 3:55 AM, when his shift ended. Who knows what held him up, right? No. Sherlock knew the reason. Of course he knew; he’s always known, though too buried in denial to ever acknowledge it.
It had been a few months since John had made any sort of move. It was ironic; everyone expected Sherlock to tire of his new toy first, but John was never a toy. He was Sherlock's everything.
Sherlock had gotten it rough that year. Merciless torture will do that to anyone, even a genius, and self-proclaimed “sociopath” such as himself. Sherlock lived to deny his instability. Always teetering on the edge of a cliff, making a game of avoiding his concerned friends’ inquiries with increasingly elaborate lies. They eventually tired of asking, John was the first.
6:40 AM.
John was definitely supposed to be back by now. He’d never been later than six before. Ever. Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried. It didn’t matter how many times John shut him out, ignored him, or lied straight to his face. Sherlock knew he'd always love him, no matter what. Maybe there was still a future for them? There had to be, after all, John always used to say he loved him.
The door finally swung open at exactly 9:02 AM. A very disheveled John Watson stepped inside, wielding a sopping wet, pink, polka-dotted umbrella. It had been raining, but Sherlock was too locked in his own head to notice. He knew that umbrella wasn’t his, or John’s. Maybe it was Molly's? Or Mrs.Hudson's? He didn't dwell on the thought long, as the red-headed woman on John's arm stole his attention. Clearly, it was hers.
The woman was undoubtedly pretty, even when sporting a nurse's scrubs. Red lips, a light dusting of freckles, and curves in all the right places. A coworker! That was all it was. Nothing worth a second thought. He thought, grasping at straws to deny what he was seeing.
"Coworker. We had extra paperwork." Was all he offered before whisking her upstairs. He walked past Sherlock without a hint of emotion, tossing the umbrella on the floor carelessly, runoff seeping into the already-molding, brown carpet.
John went straight to his flat, they'd started living in separate ones. "Only a few meters away!" he had said when he proposed the idea, "I just need more space, honey. I won't spend much time there, don't worry.". At the time, Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to figure out why, he certainly didn't ask. The clues were all there, right in front of him, easily laid out for his brilliant mind to solve, but he didn’t. He couldn’t face reality.
If it were anyone else, Sherlock would’ve already pieced the information together. It wasn’t someone else, though. It was John. John was his rock, as unhealthy as that was. With him gone, Sherlock was drowning.
It was 10:02 AM when Sherlock mustered enough courage to knock on John’s door. He thought that maybe, just maybe, everything would magically go back to how they used to be, over some nice tea. Such a childish notion would've never crossed his mind with anyone except John. The door swung open after the fifth knock. He never took that long to answer.
“What do you want, Sherlock.” He said, in a chilling and unfamiliar tone.
Only a sliver of the flat was visible, but that was enough to send the teacups plummeting to the floor. The scalding hot tea splashed John’s bedroom door, burning Sherlock's legs. All he could think about was the scene before him; John, half-naked, his coworker draped over the couch wearing nothing but a thong. He fell to his knees.
If the burns didn’t hurt enough already, the shards of teacup embedded in his legs surely would. Physical pain didn’t matter to him anyway. Accustomed to the distinctly familiar sting of a new cut, Sherlock barely flinched. Emotional pain was a different story. Nothing had ever hurt more than the confirmation of his subconscious suspicions. John didn’t love him anymore, and now he couldn't ignore it.
There were a number of things John could've said, but he didn’t bother, opting to shut the door instead. It all seemed impossible. For someone usually so logical, Sherlock's mind was devoid of reason.
He didn’t bother to think, this was the breaking point. John didn't love him, and maybe he never did. As blood seeped out of his wounds, staining the carpet, Sherlock finally realized what John wanted.
---
It took him a minute to stagger over to the stairwell. He made his way up the steps, occasionally tripping over his robe, but always managing to catch himself. After all, it didn’t matter if he got a few bruises now.
He made his way to the rooftop of the complex, fumbling with the door handle until it clicked open. It was usually locked. A tiny part of him wished it still was. The rooftop was cold on his bare feet, too cold, but it was barely noticeable. Every particle of his being was numb, which made it much easier.
There was nothing ceremonious, no note, or text message beforehand. He had hesitated for a moment on the ledge, wondering if this was the right thing to do. It only took a second to remind himself that he had nothing left to live for.
Sherlock Holmes was pronounced dead at 10:29 AM, January 15th. His last moments were spent wishing John well. After all, he’d always been Sherlock's everything.