Dolour
It was the hundredth time John had been to visit his therapist and it still wasn't helping him. Nothing was. He was in a deep dark hole that was impossible to climb out of, always growing deeper with each passing day. It had been a week since… since Sherlock had left. The detective had extinguished the only light left in his life by leaving him. He was the only thing that kept him going, no matter how many times he made it seem otherwise. And now there was only darkness.
"You need to talk about it, John." The therapist said. He inwardly cringed whenever someone said his name. Sherlock would say his name constantly. To get his attention, to berate him for no observing, or to assure him that the proceedings of the case weren't getting anyone into trouble. He was being ridiculous. It was his name for God's sake. Anyone was allowed to say it, they had to if they wanted to speak to him properly. He just wished it wasn't so hard to erase Sherlock saying his name from his mind.
"John, are you taking your medicine?" She asked. He nodded. He didn't know why he even cam anymore. It was always the same. He would refuse to talk about anything, she would ask about the medicine, and they would sit in silence for the rest of the session while she had pity plastered on her face. She was a nice person. John liked her. He was glad she cared so much about him, even if she was paid to do so. Psychologically, it helped him. To subconsciously know that someone was there for him, that someone was willing to just sit there with him and share his grief was enough to keep him coming back, no matter how much energy it took from him.
He was depressed. He knew as much. He'd seen it in the army when the boys got sick and tired of fighting for almost no reason. They hadn't had family top fight for and few friends. They had no will to fight, to live. To them, it was all for bust. And now that's how John felt. Nothing was worth it. Nothing was worth his energy, his time, his feelings. He always had the same expression, the same answers to concerned questions, and the same feelings, or lack thereof, towards everything. He felt dead. And he hated himself for it. He hated everyone, everything for it. He didn't need a reason to hate- he just did. And he hated himself for that. Hate, hate, hate.
But it wasn't all just hate. He was mainly just sad. But the word 'sad' doesn't cover what he was feeling. He was drowning in sorrow and now one was there that was strong enough to throw him a lifeline. There were people there for him. His therapist, for one. She was trying to help, but it was all useless. He didn't want to listen to her. Mrs. Hudson was there. She's the one that understood more than anyone else, but she still couldn't help him. He would refuse to listen to anyone, any advice, any attempts to help. He was dying and there was no stopping it. He already felt like he was dead anyways.
That day he had died. The day when Sherlock… his best friend had jumped from the top of Bart's and left him all alone, he had died. It wasn't quick, no. It was slow and painful. Like a dagger stuck in his gut that was being twisted around bit by bit. And he was slowly dying from the wound. And open gash that bled and bled that no one could stop. No one.
After the session was ended, he hailed a cab, using the last of his energy for the day, and went back to Baker Street to sulk and feel pathetic for himself. Mrs. Hudson was just finishing a batch of bread when he walked through the door and had a hopeful look on her face like John was somehow cured this time from his deep dolour.
"John!" She said excitedly. He scowled at her chipper attitude causing the hopeful look to fall immediately. "How did it go?" She asked.
John merely grunted a reply and went upstairs.
"I made some biscuits, do you want any, John?" He cringed when she said his name and stayed silent, closing the door to the flat behind him. She didn't hear from him for the rest of the day. Once he was in the flat, he collapsed on the floor, unable to make it to a chair or the couch. He was just so tired. He was tired of feeling like this, tired of living without him, tired of having to go on just for the sake of others. He had never felt this low before. Not even after Afghanistan. He had been depressed, yes, but what he was now was more than that. It was unable to be explained by words. They were useless in describing how he felt, how he was.
Once again, his eyes wandered to the Sig on the table by his chair and his imagination let him see what it would be like if he put the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger. It would be quick. Painless. And he wouldn't have to feel this way anymore, wouldn't have to continue life without him. Life without Sherlock was unbearable. Before he had met the man, John didn't have any reason to continue either, but he had because he had felt that there was something he would miss if he didn't. And then he found Sherlock. His life had been meaningful then, lit only by the sun that was Sherlock. And now his light was extinguished. Gone forever. Never to live again, never to see the darkness that was John without him. He was at least content for that. Sherlock would never have to see John this way when he felt there was no other reason to live.
John pulled himself from the floor and trudged over to the chair and table where his gun lay and laid his hand on the metal. It was freezing cold and his hand flinched at the contact. He was already freezing from the inside out so physical coldness didn't help him. He dropped down into the chair and picked up the weapon. For the millionth time, he felt the familiar weight of it in his hand- cold, heavy, permanent. It was a solution. Instead of going through life half-dead for the rest of his days, he could just end it here and possibly, if God was generous, be reunited with Sherlock.
He lifted to gun to his face and opened his mouth sliding the gun inside. He clicked the safety off and put his thumb on the trigger. He could feel his pulse begin to escalate and his breathing rate increase as well. He shouldn't be afraid of this. He should be afraid of living like this. Dead, with no reason, no one there with him.
He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on more happy times, times with Sherlock. When they were done with a case and the adrenaline was still subsiding, he wasn't the only one that had that look on his face towards the other man. He knew Sherlock would look at him like that, whether he admitted he was capable of such a thing or not. When they would borrow each other's things without asking, things that mattered, John held out a hope that they were more that friends or flatmates. Tears forced their way through his closed lids and he sobbed past the gun his mouth. Now they could never be anything ever again. Because Sherlock was gone. And John was about to be too.
He pulled the trigger.