The wind felt as though it could have cut right through him.
There were a lot of suicide methods he could never fathom. At least with drugs, people thought it would be painless. They were wrong, yes, the body generally went into some awful convulsions, if it didn't try to vomit back up the chemicals, but he could see why people thought it was the best option. Hanging? There was the whole set-up, finding somewhere high enough and strong enough to bear his weight, where the noose would be above head height, and once he'd done all that, he had to hope his neck broke or someone found him or he was in for a few painful hours of slow suffocation.
Throwing himself off of a bridge...
... well, there was the fall. Forty feet, maybe, before the foam. The longest second's fall. He'd hit the water like concrete, and if he was still alive when he broke the surface, he had drowning to look forward to. If he could pull himself up, the even slower killer of hypothermia awaited.
With both hands on the stone barrier, he bent double, peering into the darkness below. This far out, the streetlights didn't catch the water. The bridge was clear of traffic. At five in the morning, even London slept, fitfully.
The coldest calm fell over him. There was no pain now, no anxiety, no nightmarish thoughts on the edge of his mind, too fast to ever keep up with, or keep track of. One foot up on the narrow ledge, and then the other.
All it would take was a strong gust of wind, but he wasn't that kind of man - had to do everything on his own terms, in his own time. He'd rather face the fear of taking the final leap than have it end suddenly and surprisingly.
Should have gone with the gun, really.
John Watson nearly jumped out of his skin, and off the bridge, when someone spoke behind him in a quiet, measured voice that sounded like a thunderbolt in the silence.
"Are you going to jump?" the amber light splattered the stranger's shadow three times taller across the tarmac of the empty road, but he himself was short. A smooth, sleepy eyed man in a suit he wore like a second skin, standing in the centre of the motorway. With his hands in his pockets, he regarded the Thames' next victim, the next swollen corpse to wash up on Canary Wharf.
"Don't try to talk me out of it!"
"Oh. No. I'm not," his dark eyes cast down for a moment, and back up. "Don't let me keep you."
"Well... well... right, then!" but John was spooked now. He turned back toward the breeze and the water, but the stranger was still there, presence burning at the back of his mind. He couldn't think of anything else now. His moment was being ... well... gatecrashed. It should have been private. It was his last few breaths. He deserved a bit of peace to take them.
But John couldn't even argue that he wasn't being given it. The silence still stretched out.
The man paced across the bridge, and leaned his elbows on the cement of the safety wall, looking up at him with a half smile that seemed awkward, or faked. "Lost your nerve?"
"Shut up."
They waited, together, another few moments, but neither made a move. Slowly, the newcomer looked left, and then right, as though indicating that no, no-one was waiting for him, or stopping him.
Mysterious fill
There were a lot of suicide methods he could never fathom. At least with drugs, people thought it would be painless. They were wrong, yes, the body generally went into some awful convulsions, if it didn't try to vomit back up the chemicals, but he could see why people thought it was the best option. Hanging? There was the whole set-up, finding somewhere high enough and strong enough to bear his weight, where the noose would be above head height, and once he'd done all that, he had to hope his neck broke or someone found him or he was in for a few painful hours of slow suffocation.
Throwing himself off of a bridge...
... well, there was the fall. Forty feet, maybe, before the foam. The longest second's fall. He'd hit the water like concrete, and if he was still alive when he broke the surface, he had drowning to look forward to. If he could pull himself up, the even slower killer of hypothermia awaited.
With both hands on the stone barrier, he bent double, peering into the darkness below. This far out, the streetlights didn't catch the water. The bridge was clear of traffic. At five in the morning, even London slept, fitfully.
The coldest calm fell over him. There was no pain now, no anxiety, no nightmarish thoughts on the edge of his mind, too fast to ever keep up with, or keep track of. One foot up on the narrow ledge, and then the other.
All it would take was a strong gust of wind, but he wasn't that kind of man - had to do everything on his own terms, in his own time. He'd rather face the fear of taking the final leap than have it end suddenly and surprisingly.
Should have gone with the gun, really.
John Watson nearly jumped out of his skin, and off the bridge, when someone spoke behind him in a quiet, measured voice that sounded like a thunderbolt in the silence.
"Are you going to jump?" the amber light splattered the stranger's shadow three times taller across the tarmac of the empty road, but he himself was short. A smooth, sleepy eyed man in a suit he wore like a second skin, standing in the centre of the motorway. With his hands in his pockets, he regarded the Thames' next victim, the next swollen corpse to wash up on Canary Wharf.
"Don't try to talk me out of it!"
"Oh. No. I'm not," his dark eyes cast down for a moment, and back up. "Don't let me keep you."
"Well... well... right, then!" but John was spooked now. He turned back toward the breeze and the water, but the stranger was still there, presence burning at the back of his mind. He couldn't think of anything else now. His moment was being ... well... gatecrashed. It should have been private. It was his last few breaths. He deserved a bit of peace to take them.
But John couldn't even argue that he wasn't being given it. The silence still stretched out.
The man paced across the bridge, and leaned his elbows on the cement of the safety wall, looking up at him with a half smile that seemed awkward, or faked. "Lost your nerve?"
"Shut up."
They waited, together, another few moments, but neither made a move. Slowly, the newcomer looked left, and then right, as though indicating that no, no-one was waiting for him, or stopping him.