Sherlock fandom. TW: suicide thoughts
Just One More Day
John Watson - former army surgeon and captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers - is contemplating how to get the job done. The job the bullet that robbed him of his dreams and career failed in.
He’s at his desk, pen in hand. Around him, crumpled sheets of papers are strewn. Scrapped ideas.
His hand holding the pen is trembling. It doesn’t stop no matter how hard he tries to focus on the blank sheet of paper that’s lying on the surface underneath the insufferable extremity.
He tosses the pen across the small room and gets up to pour himself two fingers of whisky. Sometimes, the alcohol helps with the tremor.
***
Finally, the list is finished. It’s rather pathetic when you cast one glance at it. Only four bullet points. He must choose one, though.
Gun (find an angle that won’t cause to much of a mess for those who has to clean up afterwards)
Bridge (check the tide table and which time there’ll be fewer people about)
Roof (ascertain if the door to Barts’ roof is still easy to pick)
Starvation (tell Ella that you won’t need her services beforehand)
John reads it over a few times, then scraps the last point on the list. He doesn’t know if he’s got the willpower to stop eating and drinking.
Having checked the Thames’ tide table and which bridge is the best for his purpose, he finds it’s too much of a bother. Besides, he can’t be certain that an imminent death awaits him in the murky river. Knowing his luck, he’ll end up being rescued and even more invalided than he already is.
He knows the gun will do the trick, but he’s somehow reluctant to go with the obvious. It couldn’t harm to check that door first. No one would survive jumping off that tall building, and it might be easier than using the gun. It wouldn’t surprise him if his body betrayed him at the last moment; starting to shake the second he pulled the trigger, leaving him with a disfigured face instead of his brain mass scattered all around.
“Just one more day,” he mutters to himself. “I’ll check the door tomorrow and if I can get out on the roof, I’ll come back in the evening when the place is more deserted.”
***
As of late, John hasn’t paid much attention to the date. It doesn’t matter to him if it’s winter, or summer, March, or October, Wednesday, or Friday. But today – his last day – he makes an effort to register such a thing. His mobile screen tells him it’s January 29, 2010. Nothing remarkable about that. He can’t recall if he knows of anybody who’s born on this date. Upon further consideration, he doesn’t know a single soul born in January.
Since he has to encounter people other than pedestrians and shop employees, John takes a shower, shaves, and puts on his most decent checkered shirt. He glares daggers at his most hated object before he grabs the cane and limps out of his bedsit.
***
For a late January day, the weather is rather pleasant, so John decides to take a stroll through the park before making his way to Barts.
His heart sinks in his chest when someone calls his name, but he perks up when he recognises his former student friend, Mike Stamford. John has always liked him, and it feels like fate when the doctor discloses that he teaches at the hospital where they trained together, John’s destination.
“If you don’t have any plans for the day, I could show you around,” Mike proposes.
“I’d like that!” John exclaims a bit too enthusiastically.
Mike gives him an odd look, but doesn’t remark any further, just gestures a hand in the direction of his workplace.
***
John isn’t prepared for the nostalgia hitting him when he walks around at Mike’s side.
“A bit different from our days, I’d say,” John states when he looks around the modern lab.
“Agreed. The students aren’t though. They’re just as insufferable as we were,” Mike sighs, then grins.
“Speak for yourself,” John teases.
Mike’s phone pings with a text.
“Sorry, John, I have to go. Apparently, one of my students has…”
He shakes his head exasperatedly without finishing the sentence.
“You can see yourself out, can’t you?”
John nods and nods again, when Mike proposes they meet up for a pint the following week. He gives the well-meaning doctor a fake phone number, and they part ways.
Instead of taking the lift, John opens the door to the fire exit and the stairs. He doesn’t want to encounter anyone on his way to the top of the building.
To his surprise, he finds the door to the roof ajar.
“Fuck!” he mutters. “How typical.”
He turns to descend when a deep voice interrupts his steps.
“Don’t mind me. There is plenty of space up here. I won’t stand in your way.”
John freezes, unable to move. What the hell is going on?
Apparently, his legs move without his permission, and moments later he steps out on the roof. A tall man in a grand coat is leaning against the air vent, smoking a cigarette.
“Those will kill you, you know,” John remarks drily.
“Mm. A slower death than what you have in mind, though.”
A blush forms so quickly on John’s face, it makes his knees wobble.
“Easy, soldier,” the man rumbles and steadies John with a hand on his elbow.
The touch does a strange thing to John’s heart. It’s as if the chain that’s held it in a vice grip for ages is breaking. He feels light; almost carefree.
“Who are you?” he asks in wonder.
“Sherlock Holmes at your service, Doctor Watson.”
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