Title: Beautiful World
Rating: T. A bit of depression, consideration of suicide, but nothing too horrible.
Summary: Bones, tears, cold hard faces. Thoughts that lead to darker places. Plastic hollow men who lie. All that's left to do is die. Holding hands, our fingers curled, you tell me we live in a beautiful world.
Disclaimer: I intend to make no money off of this piece and write for the sole purpose of my own enjoyment.
The realization hit Sherlock one day.
Not just any day. It was a summer day ('sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun/ If the sun don't come you'll get a tan, from standing in the English rain'), but the sun shone bright across the sky, which almost seemed a false shade of blue. The grass of the lawns of the Holmes estate sort of wilted, and in the distance, bees buzzed.
The day was not important. Sherlock's realization was.
He was going to die.
Sooner or later, he was going to die. No matter what he did, no matter what he didn't do, no matter how many people loved him or hated him, no matter how many cases he solved, he was going to die. It was one of the very few constants in the universe (the other being the speed of light in a vacuum).
The second realization that he came to was that he life was somewhat miserable. He didn't enjoy school: much of the information was pointless, and he instantly deleted it. He didn't really even enjoy solving cases. He supposed they were better than anything else, because they distracted him from the great gaping hole of nothingness and lack of purpose that was his life.
So, the conclusion that he came to was rather inevitable: Life is horrible, nasty, boring, and pointless. He was going to die anyway. What did ten years, twenty years, fifty years matter? Why draw out his pain?
He wouldn't even have to be particularly smart about it. Life was rather fragile, and it was so much easier to kill something than to keep it alive. He could stop eating and drinking, but someone would notice, and he would faint. An overdose of drugs would be far easier to arrange, but Mycroft had been watching him like a hawk ever since he started using, and besides, he didn't want to die like another teenage washout junkie.
He could go on a hike, up to the old waterfall, and jump off the edge. It was a 100-meter drop, sure to kill him, especially because it was shallow and rocky at the bottom. If his neck snapped, he probably wouldn't feel it at all. The current was strong, though, enough perhaps to wash his body downstream. He'd never be found. His last mystery.
Sherlock swallowed, his throat tight. Thinking about his own cadaver made him feel strange, even more detached, as if he was already dead and it didn't matter.
Abruptly, he stood and stalked out of his room. "I'm going hiking!" he called up. Mycroft didn't even bother to grace him with a response.
a/n: I most certainly have not been writing enough for this amazing fandom. Unfortunately, I seem to write depressing pieces the best. Um…yeah. This was going to be a one-shot, but I decided to break it up. Review, please?