there’s no remedy for memory
COEY + feyuca sketch collab! :’D
coey did the heavy lifting with his gorgeous lines and ehgjefehjke some quick colors by me
As much as this pains me
I kind of want a print……………;_;
And then I look at what he’s using to hang himself
And then gross sobbing
John was a soldier. He was good with knots. He had always been.
He learned soon how to tie his shoes, or put a stash of wood together to built a tree house.
He was a boy scout first, and then he joined the army. He learnt to do more knots than he could name, and more than he cared to use.
A simple slipknot wouldn’t be that hard to muster. It wasn’t.
Not even with the silky and slippery texture of the scarf he found hanging in the wardrobe, though it wasn’t as tight as he hoped it to be.
Not to worry, it would soon be better. He just needed to pull on it harder.
He would. He should just kick the stool out of the way, and forget everything. Jump. He could hear a voice in his head, a never ending chant.
“Jump, jump, jump, Johnny-boy, you know you want to, jump.”
He almost fell from the stool, actually, his blessedly short legs standing few inches from the floor as he hang there, the fabric tightening around his neck more, and more, and more.
He was about to be there, to go away, to end everything.
He had faced death before, but it wasn’t self inflicted. He had no reason to regret it, it wasn’t his fault someone shot him.
But now, he could feel it. Regret, filling up his lungs to replace air, flowing in his veins with adrenaline, taking over his eyes and trailing down his cheeks.
He felt it, one last thing before going limp, before his legs stopped kicking out and just pulled at the scarf with the whole dead weight of his body.
He should have known better than this. He should have known Sherlock wouldn’t have let him go.
He did know when he woke up, lying on the floor of the living room, the sun slowly taking its place in the sky and lighting it up.
The voice was gone.
The scarf was still tied around his neck tightly, suffocatingly so. But the other end of it was still hanging from the ceiling, dancing in the breeze that came from the open window.
When he took it, John wondered how he had managed not to notice the straight cut on the silk, that his weight teared up entirely.
Strange, silk was resistant, and he hadn’t seen it at all.
And had the windows always been opened?
SORRY I COULDN’T NOT FANFICTION
#FEELS and the picture is great btw