Hello, hello
Anybody out there? Cause I don't hear a sound
Alone, alone
I don't really know where the world is but I miss it now
John was sitting in his chair with a bottle of wine half empty in his hand. His best friend jumped off of a St. Bart's a week ago and left him with his grief, anger and an empty flat. He still doesn't understand why he jumped and why he didn't say anything. He took a swing of his wine and looked at Sherlock's empty chair. He can still see him. His tall figure standing near a window playing violin, him only in his night gown wrapped on the sofa, his arrogant smirk... He can hear his biting comments, brilliant deductions and his laugh echoing in his mind. Now he had enough. He stood and threw the bottle at the wall. Pieces of glass were now everywhere. He shouted in anger.
I'm out on the edge and I'm screaming my name
Like a fool at the top of my lungs
Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I'm alright
But it's never enough
He closed his eyes and tried to clean his head. He then sat on the sofa. His body finally gave up and he fell asleep.
His head hurt and his mouth was dry. His attempt to stand failed miserably, he ended on the floor. When he finally stood up he went to make himself a cup of tea. Soon he heard footsteps and Mrs. Hudson walked in.
,, John, dear, have you eaten something? ''
He ignored her, grabbed his jacket and left the flat. The streets were unusually quiet. He automatically went to the park. He sat at one of the few benches and watched his surroundings. There was only an old man near a pond feeding ducks. Sudden movement on his left caught his attention and he quickly turned his head. For a brief moment he saw a tall figure in a dark floating coat. His breath caught in his throat.
I don't wanna be island
I just wanna feel alive and
Get to see your face again
,, Sherlock? ''He called, but the figure was gone. He looked around trying to find it but he was alone. He shook his head and walked away. He went to the graveyard. It was his daily ritual now. He walked slowly through the labyrinth of gravestones before he finally came to Sherlock's grave. He took a deep sigh and started speaking:
Listen, listen
I would take a whisper if that's all you had to give
But it isn't, is it?
You could come and save me and try to chase the craziness out of my head
At the end he was crying. He wanted only one last miracle. He wanted his friend back. He tried even pleading.
,, Sherlock, please, just please, don't be dead. ''
Because my echo, echo
Is the only voice coming back
Shadow, shadow
Is the only friend that I have
The graveyard remained silent and abandoned. He wiped his tears, sat near the grave and pulled out his gun. He felt broken. Death looked like the only way out of his despair. With his finger on the trigger and the gun near his head he closed his eyes. Memories flashed through his mind. The happiest ones came first. Then there were the dark ones: murderous cabbie, Chinese assassins, fear for Sherlock during the House of Baskerville case and the last one-Sherlock's suicide. His hands started trembling. These feelings were too much. Tears were streaming down his face and he tried to calm himself.
I'm out on the edge and I'm screaming my name
Like a fool at the top of my lungs
Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I'm alright
But it's never enough
Single gunshot ranged through the deserted graveyard followed by a silent thump of a lifeless body hitting the ground the gun still in his hand. Crimson stream decorated the gravestone. On the nearest tree landed nightingale and started singing. The soft haunting melody resonated through the air. When the song ended only quiet echoes may be heard.
Because my echo, echo
Is the only voice coming back
After a month later there was another gravestone and nobody had the smallest idea who put it there.
John Watson
Best friend who never stopped loving