Author's note: When it's bolded it's John's POV and when it's regular it's Sherlock's POV. Please please please leave reviews! And especially constructive criticism.
Sherlock leaned forward on the edge of the rooftop, his fists clenched, the air rushing around him, and gazed at John. His mind whirled as he thought about what his death (faked, of course) would do to the doctor. Break him irreparably, perhaps? It wasn't much of a stretch. John already been traumatized by the war. Sherlock had been the only bright light in his life for just under two years now. Sherlock looked at John's face from above, a solid mixture of horror and sorrow. He couldn't be left in this state. He had to hate Sherlock so inexorably there'd be no room for sadness. Think! He hissed.
Sherlock hesitated and then started talking, sounding like a dead man already. He painted that lovely picture of himself as the fraud, murderer, whatever you'd like to call it. It'd make it far easier for John to move on, wouldn't it? It was practical. And of course Sherlock didn't care what all those other people thought of him.
But John would be disappointed again.
Sherlock had avoided the disappointment for about a year and a half now. But perhaps it was inevitable.
Sherlock pushed that thought away and concentrated on sounding convincing. He probably could've done better. Then he leapt. John's terrified face was the last thing he saw before he hit the pavement.
John was, indeed, around like a zombie, barely eating, barely sleeping, certainly not coping or moving on. His past life, filled with light, haunted him far more than the war had ever done. And that was saying something. Sherlock was all he ever thought of, all he ever dreamt of. Every night ended with Sherlock's suicide and his blood washing over everything.
He was busy. Traveling the world, looking for assassins who still posed a threat to his friend. John was all he ever thought of, too, though in a bit of a happier sense. John was the prize at the end of this long, dull journey. He constantly imagined the moment when he'd walk into the flat. John would be there, perhaps at the computer, blogging about something or another, boring, of course. Sherlock would enter in the coat and they'd instantly go off to Lestrade for the next case. What about that moving on bit,a small, constantly ignored voice in his head whispered. He won't remember you. He did have a life before you came, you know. Wasn't your dainty little speech meant to help him get out of the flat and get another life?
But this was John, the most loyal man Sherlock had met. Actually, Sherlock wasn't sure why he'd made the whole speech in the first place. He knew John and could predict what he'd do, like Sherlock could do with most humans. And John would not move on. He'd wait for Sherlock until the end. You'll get crushed in the end. You, of all people,the voice reiterated. He'll move on and you'll come back and you'll only be an annoyance. He's probably married by now.Whenever that thought popped up, Sherlock would shoot at a wall for hours.
Six months passed, with no traces of the murderers.
John's catatonic life hadn't shifted at all. Of course people tried to help, but he would simply sit there, not responding, until they sighed, gave up, and left. He was still in the flat. He'd taken on the habit of talking to the skull. It was the closest he could get to having Sherlock there.
A year, two years.
He was now seeing a therapist three to four times a week, fighting off a heavy depression. He kept pills by his side at all times.
Three years.
He'd met someone. A perfectly boring human, but the only one who could ever get him to smile when he hadn't done so since…
No. He would not think about that. He'd learned to block it from his mind. Imagined something else whenever he saw Sherlock's mangled body, or heard the note.
He was getting married soon. He didn't really care about the event one way or the other. His only request was that they'd stay in the flat.
Sherlock strode to 221B Baker Street and entered gleefully. He'd kept the key, obviously. Here was the moment he'd waited for three bloody years.
John was in the flat with his fiancée, trying to look happy. He didn't want the wedding to be called off out of his apathy. It'd be tiring.
He finally managed to giggle at yet another dull joke and even sustained it for a few seconds. Then a few more. He found that he was actually laughing, hard, for the first time since the fall.
Sherlock reached the stairs and paused as he heard the laughter. His eyes widened and he flattened himself against the stairway. This was not how it was meant to go.
Perhaps it was someone other than John. He had to know. He quickly got out of the building and climbed up to the windowsill.
John was there, chuckling, clicking glasses with another man. John was a bit thinner, but otherwise generally the same. The other man was a friendly banker with two shepherd dogs, a kid, engaged, middle class, doesn't drink too much. As Sherlock watched, the pair leaned forward and kissed lightly.
Sherlock let go of the windowsill and fell. He got up rather quickly and wasted no time in running to the docks, to the far edge where few people ever went. He made sure no one else was around to spot him-it'd be no good if John discovered him now. He checked quickly to see it would all be neat, with no way to discover the body. Then he shot himself in the head.