Elementary The Final Problem

The rope was too tight.

He adjusted the noose again. Very gently, and meticulously enough so his slender fingers could coil firmly around the knotted, fibrous cloth as he tugged it outward, spreading his nails to widen the hole. It currently fit snugly around his scrawny neck, but he deduced that the level of pressure that was coiffing his light stubble was much too persistent; after all, he wanted this to be done _quickly_, not brutally and prolongedly. _Prolongedly_. He doubted whether that was even a word or not.

In truth, he had made several attempts to think today. He had once again retreated into the stuffy confines of the humble brownstone, amid sprawling vermin and flying dust to step noisily into the bookshelf. He had read and perused, analyzed and decoded, scanned and synthesized… yet the eternal issue still remained. In a way, it was almost poetic the way he was going to go; despite his voracious loathing of the semantics of prose, he felt that this method possessed two notable advantages: chiefly, Joan need not be troubled with deducing the cause, and furthermore, he would feel that massive swelling in his chest dissipate in three to four seconds of anxious squirming until his throat would eventually cave in, crushing his windpipe and blocking oxygen flow to his brain.

"Oops."

He had failed to notice Clyde. The diminutive turtle slithered its way towards his now retracted foot as he shifted it back to better balance himself on the chair he was standing on. He took another glance around. Despite the sunlight filtering through the aging, brown windows and illuminating clouds of feathery particles dancing softly around him, the brownstone was mostly renovated… at least in his mind. He had made sure than when she would discover him (she inevitably would), she would at least be remotely impressed by his newfound proclivity for hygiene. The bookshelves, although tawdry and creaking by nature, still remained resolutely firm even as Sherlock fumbled around on top of the brown pedestal, fiddling with the noose so only the softest fabric contacted his skin.

_Skin_.

She had always had beautiful skin. _Fair_, he judged. Although he hadn't exactly made a detailed study about the attractiveness of the human physique, he knew almost instinctively that she was close to DaVinci's portraits if he would have painted a woman instead of that decrepit old man. Yet he felt no need to overwhelm her, to even claim her as his own, or even remotely take her by force – rather, he felt a much more fledgling emotion, a curious bond that was so viscerally fragile by nature he had been careful to conceal it behind a massive tirade of putdowns, criticisms, English euphemisms, and of course, _pouting_. She had always stayed silent during these massive guffaws. He internally wished that she had stayed quiet a little longer.

It was over now. Despite his absence, she had fared better than he could have ever hoped for. She was well-established, had numerous organizations put in prison, and even developed a dysfunctional rapport with the NYPD; a relationship he grimaced at the thought of.

_I don't need you._

That was indeed the twisting of the knife.

After 10 texts, 22 calls and nearly four repeated incidents of stalking by Kitty, he had achieved almost nothing. She remained as distant as ever, standing far away just beyond the cold whip of the night air and somehow shrouded by the city lights… a ghost lurking in the darkest of shadows. She hadn't even bothered to respond. Eventually, he judged, he would be rendered obsolete. He just had not expected something to occur within him that made it so infuriating. Here he was, the perfectly objective machine… the unbiased freedom fighter of logic, obeying no one and nothing – reduced to a mess of lousy feelings. The fight was lost as soon as her new lease was purchased. As soon as Mycroft's foot left the door, Clyde returned back to his sea abode, and he overheard her conversation via phone, he deduced immediately the only solution. He had expected the solution to become practical much later. But, considering the current circumstances…

A twinge of pain.

More than a twinge. He thought of long nights spend chatting with each other whilst surveying an empty house for visitors, both dressing Clyde up for the holidays, him throwing an assortment of clothes at her quietly sleeping form shoved firmly underneath heavy blankets… and all the laughs, the smiles, and the lingering gazes. _Joan…_

With an effort, he kicked off the chair.

He felt the pain surge through him. Try as he might to control his now flailing limbs, desperately clawing at the rope now slowly compressing his neck, he immediately felt blackness shroud his vision from all angles. Slowly, the world was growing hazy and dark, and red liquid was boiling underneath his mouth. He knew it was almost over.

He recalled briefly that once he had mentioned to her that he was confused by why he needed her. He remembered affirming that with time, he would solve that mystery as well.

At the very least, he had made good on his promise.

_**A/N: IDK why, but suddenly I felt a need to type this. I completely sympathize with Joan's quest to become independent and develop her own character, but you can't help but feel a twinge of pity (maybe even regret) for Sherlock, as clearly he's the one that suffers because of her absence. I respect Watson, but I do not necessarily like the new, almost forgetful relationship, LOL!**_

_**Anyway, don't ask me why I like depressing fics. It's just a interest I guess. *cue awkward cricket noise***_

_**Well, R/R and thanks for reading!**_


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Elementary, Angst, Tragedy