A/N: This is my first time publishing a Sherlock fic, so please don't be too brutal.
Rated T for self harm and depressive themes… But I don't want to give away too much, so meh. I may continue, I may not, depending on the responses I get.
Reviews would be very much welcomed, and will be rewarded with muffins that possess the ability to not exist :D
Thanks for reading.

Broken Butterflies

It had started about fourteen months ago, right about the time that John had walked out.

All of a sudden, there was no point in getting up anymore. He felt drained, all the time, and no amount of sleep could rectify that. He barely ate, he drank next to nothing, and the only reason he'd drag himself from the hollow of his bed was to either use the bathroom or to make tea.
Occasionally, Mrs Hudson would check in on him. She'd tut at his seemingly lifeless form, tug open the curtains to let some light in, and try to pull her tenant from his conscious slumber, but to no avail. And so she would leave, and he would be alone once again.
The less despondent he became, the less frequently she visited, until it got to a point where she could no longer bothered. But that hardly mattered to him anymore. In his world, the only thing his foggy mind was able to comprehend was that he had blown the one chance he'd had with John.

"Usually this is the part where I say that the end of our relationship is because of me, and not you." John had said, snapping his suitcase shut. "But that would be a lie. I tried to make this work; I put in every scrap of effort I could muster and got nothing in return, and I'm tired of it." He had reasoned with John, even pleaded with him, but all hope was lost.
"It's over, Sherlock." He picked up the case, and turned to look at his partner for the last time. "And you have no one to blame but yourself."

Frequent text messages followed in the months afterwards, leading up to frantic, sobbing phone calls at uncivilised hours, until one night Sherlock's shaking body was answered by an empty dial tone- the number had been disconnected and he was left to bleed on his own.

Sherlock was well aware that, had he wanted to, he would have been perfectly capable of finding out where John was now residing. He'd have found the answer in one, maximum two phone calls…
But by that time, Sherlock had given up hope. He had resigned himself to the fact that John wanted him no longer, and this weighed heavily on his heart.
The pain of losing the one person whom he had ever loved and entirely trusted was comparable to none other, and each day that he lived without John his will to live ebbed away little by little.
At first, he had expected John to come back within a few days. He reasoned, for his own sanity more than anything else, that the anger was only temporary.
After a while, expectation turned to optimism, and Sherlock could often be found sitting before the front door for hours at a time, in the hopes of being able to welcome John back home the moment he entered the flat.
But then, when no such thing occurred, optimism faded to pessimism, and he convinced himself that he would spend the rest of his days alone, if only just to avoid the suffering that came with another twenty four hours with no sign from John.

One day, he'd found himself prying up the third floorboard on the left underneath his bed, where he had hidden a small stash of white powder left over from his addiction-filled past. At the time, he was unsure as to why he had chosen to leave the ache of temptation so easily within reach, but now he understood. It was because, at times like these, he felt safest drowning the rest of the world out in a haze of drugs. He sacrificed the pain of having to withdraw from cocaine again for the agony of having to withdraw from love's clutches.

But before long, his supplies had dwindled and diminished entirely, and the hunger for being able to hold John in his arms once more overpowered the hunger for drugs in a battle of strengths.
So he had turned to an entirely new addiction.

He had unearthed a lonely, unused razor blade from his bedside drawer, and snaked it across the skin of his arm, watching in fascination as crimson beads of blood welled up in harmony with the bite of his blade. The physical pain balanced out the emotional, and the blood allowed him to focus on something other than John. The scars reminded him that he had only a razor blade for company, and he allowed himself to give way to a third addiction, and began desiring pain almost as much as he desired John.
Less than three months later, he found another way to indulge his new craving. After accidentally scalding himself with boiling water, he'd found that the lasting pain was at least enough to distract him for a short while.
As quick as that, he was he would burn the skin of his arms or legs with a hot piece of metal, not caring where he scarred himself- after all, who was there to see them?
Like Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft had too lost interest in his brother; seemingly far too busy working to help repair his brother's shattered heart. Lesterade had given up trying to force work on him just a few months after John had left. But Sherlock was beyond caring, for all he wanted was to see his John again.

He would have liked to be able to blame all his problems on a specific, unavoidable cause, but every time he dared to find other reasons for their relationship breaking apart John's last words to him rang clearly in his mind. No one to blame but yourself.

He had known that he had been a little neglective of his partner. As he had been accustomed to back then, he'd put his work before his relationship, and how he had to pay the price. Despite being aware of John's feelings about this -the resentful glint in his eyes was enough to tell him what John thought that long before they were voiced- he made no particular effort to make any difference to this. And now, because of this, he was forced to admit to himself that his reluctance to change cost him the love of his life.

And so on it went, day after day of isolation and pain until it got to a point where he could no longer tolerate it. He forced himself to get out of bed, and took a shower. A long, refreshing shower.

He put on his silk dressing gown once he felt clean again, and spent a long time searching through his wardrobe until he found the clothes he wanted. The purple shirt that John had liked so much and a pair of black trousers, both starting to collect dust after having not been worn for such a long time.
He made the effort to shave, to cut a few locks of hair that had grown too long, and put on aftershave.
The shirt hung loose against his frail body and he was not used to feeling clean and refreshed again, but he did it despite this, despite it not making a difference to how he felt. Because he wanted to be dressed the way John had remembered him. He wanted to be the man that John had loved.
After writing a note and leaving it on the coffee table in the living room, he tied a scarf around his neck, shrugged his signature coat on and pulled on his gloves before exiting his front door.
A long time had passed since he had properly ventured out into the open, and the cold bite of a November wind surprised him slightly. He walked purposefully, taking in the surroundings as he went. New Takeaway shop opened. Road works finally finished on the roundabout.
Meaningless facts fluttered sleepily through his mind like broken butterflies, spending their final moments doing the thing they did best and showing the world their beautiful markings. A butterfly, though perhaps admired for a short while, is forgotten about a short time afterwards.

He'd reached his final destination within a few minutes. Cold air brushed the skin of his face and he closed his eyes, breathing in the deeply and trying to picture the world in a new light, but was unable to conjure any image that didn't fill him with dread and hopelessness.
A single tear slipped down his cheek and he took another few deep breaths as his head suddenly became heavier and the world began to spin, trying to steady himself.

The river was a long way down from the bridge he was standing on. It was the River Thames, he thought. Or maybe it wasn't; he couldn't be sure anymore.
It was easy enough to slip over the railings, and he perched on the other side, staring down at the muddy water as a slight smile traced across his face.

Sherlock took a deep breath, intended to be his last.

"I'm sorry, John…" He whispered into the empty air.

And he jumped.