John Watson knows what pain feels like, he's had enough of it in his life to know its taste. When he was six, he fell and scraped his knee, he knew pain back then. That day John had cried until his mom gave it a kiss and made it better. When John was sixteen he had an accident with his motorbike. He broke his shoulder and wasn't allowed to drive it anymore. That day John had also cried, it was the last time he had. Later, in Afghanistan, John had known pain when he was shot in the shoulder. When he saw his fellow-soldiers, his friends, die. At the age of 38, John Watson was pretty sure he knew all there was to know of pain. But then Sherlock jumped, and oh, was he wrong.

When Sherlock first entered John's live, you could say it was just at the right time. His gun weighed like lead in his pocket. John was subtly fingering it, contemplating his own demise. Then he thought about just taking it out and shooting himself through the head. Perhaps he could gather a crowd first , get the police and the news to show up, he could tell them the truth about war, about what it does to the young men and women who fight there. Maybe his suicide would raise a political debate and do some good. John had decided the odds were good and was just reaching into his pocket when he heard his name called.

"John? John Watson!"

Bless that Mike Stamford.

And then John met Sherlock and it all got better.

The bond Sherlock and John created became something John never imagined, a friendship he'd give his life for, a house he could call home. The way Sherlock was so intelligent, yet so innocent, was absolutely endearing to John. The action and adventure that came with that life were just what John needed, what he had missed. Sherlock's violin, his experiments, his amazing way of deducing, all were wonderful to John. And when he told the detective so, the younger mans eyes would sparkle and his brooding face would light up. It didn't take a long time for John to fall in love with Sherlock, completely and irrevocably.

" We're not a couple!" John said this more times than he could remember, more times than he'd like. Oh how he wished it was true, that he could proudly hold the detectives hand at crime scenes and go on romantic dates with him. Too bad Sherlock was sociopathic, married to his work, not ...interested. It was made more than clear to John on several occasions, yet he could not help but hope. Hope that the looks Sherlock would sometimes give him held love, that the 'accidental' touches were not accidental and the casual touches could mean more. But John knew a lost cause when he saw it. So John was happy with what Sherlock could give him, companionship and the best friendship John had ever known. Life with Sherlock meant John still reached for his gun at times, but never with the same intentions as that day.

Then Sherlock had jumped. Jumped from a building, landed on the pavement. It was all Johns fault. He hadn't been the friend he should have been for Sherlock. He didn't see the signs, hadn't known the pain the younger man was in. John had been in the same situation for crying out loud, how could he have missed it?! He should have done something. It he had, Sherlock would still be alive and John wouldn't feel this pain. The pain was worse than anything John had ever felt, worse than the shoulder, worse than the bullet even worse than the deaths of war. John didn't know that the death of a single person could hurt like this, he wouldn't have believed you had you told him. It felt like his heart had fallen together with Sherlock's off the roof of St Barts. He wished it had, at least he wouldn't have to live with these feelings.

It had been three months since the detectives death and John was empty. He only felt guilt, anger and pain. At first his friends had tried reaching out to him, tried breaking into his black world. Mrs. Hudson had brought him cake and she had tried to talk about Sherlock, about the happy memories they had together. John had yelled at her and thrown the cake out of the window, he wasn't proud of that.

Lestrade had tried calling, but since John had broken his phone after Sherlock fell ( not jumped, never jumped) and hadn't bothered replacing it, it wasn't of much use. When the inspector came by John ignored him until the man left. Though John knew it really wasn't Lestrades fault he couldn't help but feel angry at him, even after he saw the guilt and pain in his eyes. He was approached a few times after that but soon he was left alone (apart from Mycrofts continuous attempts to give him a cell phone and money).

The thoughts came back, the dark ones. Plans were made, contemplated and abandoned. But John knew he couldn't hold on for much longer. Why should he have to live with this pain when Sherlock gave up on his own. John had thought about the gun, had held it in his hands sitting on the couch. Eventually he had decided against it, he wouldn't do that to Mrs. Hudson, he would spare Lestrade the effort of proving it was suicide. So not the gun, perhaps he could hang himself, but again, that would be horrible for his landlady. Then one night it came to him, he would jump, just as Sherlock had. He'd jump into the Thames, perhaps they wouldn't even find his body. John threw the gun into the couch and stood up. He wrapped the detectives scarf around his neck and left the house.

The cold wind was cutting into his face, even colder on the streaks his tears had left on his face. It was 3 am and John Watson was standing against the railings on Waterloo Bridge, looking out over the water and crying for the first time in twenty-two years. The night 'sky was dark and there were little people around. John closed his eyes. He thought about Sherlock, about his love for the other man and about how it came too late. He had missed him ever since Sherlock took that last step. More tears ran down his face. Johns whole body shook with the power of his sobs. Slowly he climbed over the rail, standing closer to the edge. He looked down into the dark waters of the Thames, streaming somewhat fast, his body would float away. And then there were lights on him, sirens blazing, police cars and black Mercedeses surrounding his spot on the bridge. Lestrade was slowly advancing towards him but stopped when he saw John leaning forward.
"John, mate, you don't want to do this..." The inspector tried to sound sure of himself, too bad he failed. John just blinked at him and turned his gaze toward Mycroft.
"Were you watching me? Of course you were, can't keep that big nose out of my business. Well you can all leave now, it's what I want you know?" John said reasonably.
"John please, this is unnecessary, please come here so we can talk." Mycroft took a step towards John.
"Ah, no. You see, I won't do that, you'll lock me up somewhere 'safe', no thanks." John looked back to the water and leaned forwards again.

"John!"

Johns head snapped towards the elder Holmes. Behind him stood a ghost. Black hairs shaggy and pale face sunken there stood Sherlock Holmes.

"John please, come to me!"

Oh to hear his voice again, John closed his eyes and enjoyed the sound. Yes Sherlock, soon I'll come to you, I'll join you in death.

"John p-please!" The otherwise so strong voice cracked.

John smiled, he looked at the apparition. He took in the ivory skin and obsidian hair. The lean form and at last those eyes that seemed to hold the universe. John smiled when he noticed the outstretched hand, soon he would be able to hold it again. The soldiers eyes met the detectives and he grinned. With a smile still on his face, John Watson jumped into the cold, unforgiving waters of the Thames.

"Jooohn!"

The End

So I had a go at fanfiction again, please let me know what you thought and if there are any mistakes or something just let me know and I'll fix it. Also, if any of you know good fic where John attempts suicide (succesful or not) please recommend them ^^ I feel angsty lately.