I got really bored on camping, and got this more or less depressing idea. I don't think it will get any more lighter.
Finally. Finally could he be free of the pain. Life after Sherlock's death had been nothing but a sad, depressing joke. He'd been sitting in 221B Baker Street in his usual armchair day in and day out, silent-treating everyone that had come to visit him; Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mycroft and even Molly. He hated them visiting. They sat there, trying to say something that would help him, with pity written all over their sad faces. Molly had started crying. She'd put her arms around him, and whispered 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry' repeatedly, but he hadn't moved. Sometimes, when he sat staring at Sherlock's empty chair long enough, he appeared before him.
"Get yourself together, John! You're wasting your life!" was mostly what he said. Those words didn't offer him any comfort at all. He wish he could imagine Sherlock being here, holding around him like he wanted him to, but he only appeared when John didn't want him there, and never said anything helping at all. Not even in his sleep could he imagine Sherlock being there for real, only repeating nightmares of the fall. So he'd stopped sleeping. He stayed awake for days, until he finally crashed down, sleeping a cold, empty sleep, more of an unconsciousness than an actual rest. When John was at the lowest of low, he blamed himself. He should've told Sherlock how he felt. The two times he'd been at his thumb stone, he'd cried, whispering the words he so desperately wished he'd said when Sherlock was alive. It didn't help. Sherlock was gone, he would never know how John felt and his life no longer had a meaning.
Which was why he now sat on the bathroom floor, his gun in his hand, pointing it at his temple. If he just pulled the trigger, he could meet Sherlock again, and tell him all the things he never said. For the first time since the day his detective jumped, he smiled a tiny smile. Maybe, if there was such a thing, he could join the detective solving crimes in heaven. Or hell. He was just about to pull the trigger, when the door to the bathroom suddenly flew up. A familiar figure stormed in, and almost made John drop the gun, gazing at the person in front of him.
"Don't do it, John!" John shook his head. This was really bad. Now he'd started imagining Sherlock coming to rescue him. This figure was nothing to what he usually saw; this man was snow-white, with red eyes and a desperate look in his eyes.
"You're not real," John said, more to himself than to the person in front of him.
"I'm just imagining things again."
The last colours of Sherlock's face disappeared with those words. He reached out his arms, unsure what to do.
"No. John, put down the gun. I'm real, I promise. Put down the gun."
Something clicked inside of John. It was bad enough he had to live without his best friend, but now he also was hallucinating. It just made the pain worse. It ached through his whole body, driving him crazy.
"You are NOT REAL," he screamed, pointing the gun at Sherlock instead, wanting to prove he was right. It wasn't before the bullet hit his former flatmate, and Sherlock fell to the floor, John realized what he'd done. The shot had gone through Sherlock's shoulder, and he bled seriously already. How could this happen to him? Was Sherlock alive? It was too much. The gun fell out of his hands, and he passed out, welcoming the surrounding blackness.
Apologizing for short chapter, but I figured it was a good place to end it.
Tell me what you think!