AN: SPOILER WARNINGS CONTAINED BELOW!
Please, PLEASE read the tags first!
Then, consider reading the Author Note below, IF you are incredibly sensitive...
ONE MORE DAY WITH YOU...
Hand upon the shinning black tombstone which read, "SHERLOCK HOLMES," John Watson could hardly breathe, let alone think, or speak. The words seeped from his lips, as rain from a soggy bog.
"I was so alone. And I owe you so much. But please, there is one more thing... one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me: Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."
John's voice cracked as he spoke, tears threatening as he whispered in agony, trying his damnedest not to break his heart along with his cracking voice. He must not allow his grief to swallow him whole. If he gave in, he would be destroyed completely. There would be nothing left.
Turning away from the grave, he limps away leaning heavily on his cane, wanting nothing more that to escape. Leave all of his pain buried here with Sherlock's decaying corpse. Imagining it all to clearly, he felt his love shrivel. He closed his eyes in disgust. This! This is what he has become! A love-sick child, weeping at the tomb of a Sociopath. It took everything in him not to sick up what little he had inside him at that singular depressing thought.
...
Rain beat the glass as he sat in the chair. In his mind he could see him fall. He always fell and there was never anybody there to catch him. Least of all John Watson. Eyes closed, he hears the sound of Sherlock's body as he hits the pavement, a sickening crack of bones and harsh tearing of flesh.
He is at his lifeless side, turning the broken body to stare into blank, dead eyes. Eyes that once had been filled with such a raging, burning life, were now empty, hallowed.
...
He is sitting before the glowing screen which read, 'The Personal Blog of Dr. John. H. Watson. You are logged in as J.H. Watson.'
Typing quickly, without taking a second thought to the words, John wrote an Untitled entry on 16th June that began, "He was my best friend, but I never told him the truth, that I have fallen in love with him. There is nothing that I can do now, but regret never trusting my heart to tell him the truth:
I love you Sherlock Holmes and I'll always believe in you."
Doubt filled his head, such words were needless when they could never be told to the one person that truly mattered. John hit the backspace button on the silver laptop, and started erasing all the words as quickly as possible. He rewrote it without his heartfelt confession:
"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."
The earlier words ceased to exist. Erased from his blog, but never from his immortal soul, the original words stung his eyes in shame. There are simply some things in this world that are too difficult to face: Lost lovers, forever being one. Feeling heartsick John crosses his cold bare arms and glances out the window at the freezing rain. If he stood in it would it freeze his broken heart? Would it heal is damaged soul?
Shuddering he is cold at the very thought and covers himself with his beige jumper seeking what warmth he could within its rabbit-fur like plush material. Tucked in it's warm embrace, he feels somewhat safe. Even if this feeling is merely another illusion, it comforts him mindlessly.
...
It was a photograph in black & white, framed in a black wooden frame, a white and cream matting, mounted on aging wallpaper. The image frozen in time, starring directly at him: in it he saw Sherlock glancing back at John. There were times like this, when he stared it and thought he saw more than merely Friendship, in that normally cold, and calculating gaze. And yet, there were other times that he scolded himself for his wild imagination. Sherlock in love: Impossible!
This was what he thought as he limps away and climbs on to bed for the evening on this raining night. Laying his cane against the wall, he lays down heavily with an exhaustive sigh of relief. Once again he is hoping for more than an hour's sleep before the nightmares drive him awake, shaking in fear and loss. Would tonight, be the night he slept all the way through?
Dark against the sky, an image stark against the day. The tall, lean figure raises his arms and... falls.
John is lying in his bed. Face towards the ceiling as he once again screams himself awake. Green bile fills his throat as he attempts to swallow it down. He has screamed himself upright, and is sitting up in bed now. Running to the loo, forgetting his cane in his despair, he vomits in the toilet, again and again, then wipes himself clean before limping heavily as he returns to his bedroom nightmare...
The cold pavement, wet with rain soaks Sherlock's coat. Rain. RAIN! This is why the damp weather seeps into his heart, and makes him break down over and over again. Such a cold epiphany! Caught within his nightly terrors, he rounds the corner and screams awake, before again discovering Sherlock's lifeless body on the cement. This time he sits on the edge of his bed, breathing heavily, attempting to garner some measure of control. His head is full with memories of regret. He left him. He didn't believe in him. Not when it mattered! And Sherlock had killed himself, knowing John has failed him.
...
Limping to the desk, and grabbing something for his increasing headaches John sits with the desk lamp off. His left hand rubbing the source of his torment. If only it were possible to scrub them away. Eyes closed, he sees that smile. Sherlock's grin. Warm. Alive. If only in his head. His left hand rubs harder, in an attempt to erase it from his mind's eye.
It is hopeless.
He turns to the right. An open drawer. His military issue weapon lays within. The answer to his prayers. Eyes closed he recalls Sherlock in his blue dressing gown, and grey shirt, his curls bouncing as he fires the weapon at the wall. He was lucky that it hadn't been confiscated then. And even more lucky today.
Without a smile he turns away from the revolver for now, even as the memory of Sherlock continues to haunt him. John slowly closes the door and heads off to the shower, getting ready for work mindlessly. It is tasks like these that sometimes allow him a moment's peace.
John briskly walks down the hallway, for once not using his cane in his distress. A voice ringing in his head. His own, "You machine! Sod this! Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own."
"That is what I have. Alone protects me," Sherlock's soft voice answers gently.
To which John's memory with all his misunderstanding snaps back, "No! Friends protect people."
He was so wrong!
And it is this regret that has his left hand covering his face as he sobs and sobs. If he had only known that Sherlock was trying to protect him, all of them, he would have spoken differently. He would NEVER have left him! Never! Although his shift at work is not over he walks outside and attempts to flee his memories in a cab.
More images claimer for his heart. The palace, Sherlock stealing the ashtray, their laughter together, all of the sweet memories flood back and become bitter regret.
He continues to sob in the taxicab and almost manages to speak his address before running out and down the street. He needs to get away from what he remembers as fast as possible. He runs harder both his work cane and limp forgotten, one he would no longer require any longer.
Footfalls upon wet pavement, and a half hour later he has arrived. The dull letters of 221B above the knocker upon the black door at Baker Street. He continues running up the staircase. He searches around the flat for the one person he needs to see, but he is gone. He is dead. All because of John. Everything has come to the end. He cannot continue this way any longer. He limps around leaning on his cane that he has carried with him since Sherlock jumped.
It is time. Time to say goodbye.
There is nothing left for John anyways. Not without Sherlock in this world. Nothing left for John to live for!
...
Pale face and dark curls. Tall, slim in a inky coat. Sherlock stands at the door of 221B Baker Street. It had taken him so long to return. Two years of dismantling his archenemies' Crime Network. All of it for John. Before he left he had deduced John's love for himself, and became fascinated to realise that it was mutual. For once Sherlock felt something for someone and it was for John that he had fought to return. Nothing else in life matters.
Sherlock's hand goes to the front door. He opens it as quietly as possible, he wants to surprise John so badly. He wants to make him happy that he is Home. He will be happy, won't he?
...
John crosses the room now his limp is more pronounced than ever, he leans heavily upon his home cane, intent upon one thing only.
...
Sherlock's hand reaches one of their inner doors. He places it upon the frosted glass, and presses it softly open. Mycroft had said that John was not doing well and to hurry home, but he is often overly dramatic. He always has been ever since they were small children together. His brother always exaggerating how badly mummy was doing while he was away from home exploring and playing Pirates in the nearby forests. Always he returned home with Mycroft whispered warnings ringing in his ears to find mum perfectly safe and healthy.
...
John opens the drawer, and checks to be certain that his revolver has a bullet. It does. Hearing a creak he thinks that Mrs. Hudson's house cat is pawing at the door to their flat again. He sighs loudly. Their... their flat. He, for some reason expects Sherlock to still be living here with him. But Sherlock is gone, forever.
...
Not wanting to startle John, Sherlock proceeds to open the door so very carefully.
...
John limps to his single bed. Stands next to it briefly. Allowing his cane to fall sharply to the floor, unneeded, and unwanted. Abandoned, rather like he had done to Sherlock in the end. As it fell a car outside backfires loudly. Momentarily it startles him.
...
Sherlock glances up. Something does not feel right! As he hears a car outside backfiring, he thought he heard something upstairs falling.
...
John sits upon his bed. Stares off into nothing.
...
Sherlock opens the door slowly. He walks in, and looks around. That feeling that something is terribly wrong intensifies. But he has no idea what this feeling means.
...
John stretches his chin.
...
Sherlock proceeds down the hall. Fear slows his movements to a near standstill, as he hears a click that strikes terror throughout his entire body.
...
John lightly purses his lips, a movement Sherlock detested, sworn he could hear a mile away. Heart breaking, he laughs bitterly. Lowers his head.
...
Sherlock had never heard a laugh so utterly devoid of warmth, filled with such futility. He feels like he can hardly walk, and yet he is moving ever forward.
...
John places the gun to his temple. "Goodbye, Sherlock."
...
Sherlock feels frozen, his motion sluggish. He hears John's broken voice speak words that he never wanted to hear, "Goodbye, Sherlock." Horrified a single gunshot is the next sound that can be heard from John's bedroom. Sherlock enters and his heart stops beating at the sight within.
He can only stare in vain at the gruesome scene that lays before him: John broken and bleeding - he is too late!
John Watson is dead...
AUTHOR NOTE ::
Main Character DEATH!
This fanfiction is based on a video that contains the Death of - John Watson.
He commits suicide via shooting himself at the end of the video and he also shoots himself here as well.
For now however, this fanfiction IS complete!