Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the poem excerpt.
John checked the calendar, which informed him it was the three month anniversary of Sherlock's death, but of course he knew that with or without conformation.
He decided today was the day.
He was sick of living this way. Hell, he was sick of living in a world without Sherlock Holmes. All he ever felt anymore was pain that he lost the one person in the world who - despite his sociopathic tendencies - would be there for him. He could come home and rant about his bad day and his friend would explain everything using logic. John supposed it would bother most people, but to him it had been a comfort.
He missed running around all of London chasing criminals. Despite whom they were chasing and why, it was incredibly exhilarating.
The thing he missed most about his friend however was his friend. Waking up at three in the morning to hear a hauntingly beautiful melody coming from the violin. The experiments in the kitchen and various appliances. How Sherlock never seemed to be able to put his coat on the coat hook. Making Sherlock his tea, two sugars and two splashes of milk.
No one really thinks they'll miss things such as those, but after the person is gone, you wind up craving those things. You would give anything for those small things.
John thought of what he'd seen that day. Sherlock had been lying there on the pavement and people had surrounded him. John tried to push past, to get to his friend, but he was held back. All he was able to do was grab his wrist and feel the lack of pulse.
His eyes had stared straight ahead, those beautiful eyes. Blood had covered his face, making those beautiful eyes appear disgusting. When he had been rolled over, his hair was soaked in his own blood.
He wished that wasn't his last memory of the consulting detective. He wished he remembered their teasing words and friendly smiles rather than lies (and those things he said about being fake weren't true) and his bloodied face.
This was John's best chance. Mrs. Hudson would not return for a few more days as she was visiting her sister, he didn't have work the next day, and he hadn't made plans with anyone.
So this was it.
He sat in his normal chair, dressed in his normal clothes, and yet this day was anything but normal for him. It was happening none the less.
He was a little bit nervous, but he did it. One by one, he brought the pills to his mouth and swallowed them. The entire bottle.
John leant back in his chair, and despite the niggling sense of fear (which was only human nature), he felt strangely at peace.
Sherlock gazed through the window at John who hadn't moved for two minutes, not even a steady rise and fall of his chest to suggest he was asleep. Something was wrong.
He opened the window quietly and stood in front of John. He had an extremely faint pulse and barely any breath.
He looked at the coffee table which held a half full glass of water and an empty pill bottle.
John had overdosed purposely.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. This was not supposed to happen.
Sherlock kept one his finger under John's nose to ensure he kept breathing and fished his phone out of his pocket, calling an ambulance and telling them to hurry.
In only a few moment's time the sirens were wailing outside the building. As soon as they were 15 seconds away from entering the flat Sherlock kissed John lightly on the forehead and slipped silently out the window.
"Ah, Mr. Watson. Good to see you're awake!" a young female doctor smiled as she entered the room.
"Huh? Wha's goin' on?" John asked confusedly.
"You're in the hospital, Mr. Watson. Painkiller overdose," she tsked. "Now why would you go and do a silly thing like that?"
He shook his head and sighed, turning to face the other way but spotting a plain white envelope on the table next to his bed.
"What's this?" he asked, holding it between his fingers.
She shrugged. "Dunno. Was left here by some tall bloke in a coat. Didn't say anything, just left it, kissed your forehead, and left."
John's heart sped up and he tore it open, unfolding the paper inside and reading the familiar handwriting.
Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep.
Stay strong, my dear John.
That was it. That was all it said. John held it to his chest and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
"Go on then, what was it?"
"Hope," he whispered.
A/N: Hey there reader! Thanks for reading my short fic! It didn't turn out how I originally planned but I think its okay. I was going to base it off the song Angel by Sarah McLachlan (beautiful song, check it out). The excerpt is from Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
Please review! I'll love you forever!