From the minute Sherlock's head hit the pavement, the second the lifeblood began to pour from his body, John knew it would only be a matter of time before he followed suit. Kneeling by him on the pavement for those few seconds before he was dragged away, he felt Sherlock's frozen skin, saw the white alabaster pallor of his complexion and the raven, ebony black of his hair, both striking in contrast to the blood red that slowly stained him, and he knew that one day he too would be similarly stained. At Sherlock's funeral, he prayed, properly prayed for the first time in many years that God would give Sherlock back to him. He prayed to be given the chance to tell Sherlock how he really felt, to tell him the truth that he had hidden inside of him ever since the day he'd met the man, that amazing, brilliant, handsome, genius of a man. He prayed that he would finally be allowed to show Sherlock just how important he was, and just how much he meant to John.
But, as the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months and the months to a year, the anniversary of Sherlock's death rolled around, and John knew he couldn't make it through another year. Part of him had died with Sherlock that day, and that death was slowly consuming him from the inside, eating away at his heart and mind like a parasite, attacking everything he had once loved and gnawing it down until there was just a shell of it left. The horror of that day haunted him, seeping into the cracks in his ever-worn armour and making him relive the trauma minute after minute. Some days, he would be out buying groceries, or being dragged for a pint by Lestrade, (trying to coax John away from the land of the dead, and back to that of the living) when his eyes would glaze over, and imaginary images of the fall littered his vision. It felt like hours before he was finally shaken back into the real world by Greg, or an anxious shop assistant. His standard reply to their enquiries was "I was miles away. Daydreaming. Sorry." But those around him knew better, and Greg would always leave 221B after walking John back home, with a strange sense of overbearing responsibility. As though if anything were to happen to John, it would somehow be his fault. The dark clouds swallowing Dr. Watson began to infiltrate his friends and family, even Harry, who on more than one occasion suddenly felt the need to 'drop by' unlike she ever had in the past. And John, on the inside, began to hate himself for being the cause of these visits. He felt 'in-the-way', as though Greg, Harry, Mycroft, all of them were only fulfilling an obligation, as though he was being bothersome by simply existing.
A plan began to formulate in his grieving mind, as the anniversary of the death of the man he loved grew ever closer.
