Hello again. This is just a little unedited drabble I wrote a few weeks back and am just getting around to posting. Trigger warning, attempted suicide. Please do not read if you are not into this kind of fic. If you are into it, enjoy and please leave a review

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, BBC or any character you recognize in this story

It was the 3rd anniversary of Sherlock Holmes death and John Watson could barely take it anymore. The trees around him were covered in leaves, and the shadow cast over the grave reminded him of the shadow his friend's death had left over him. He stood over the mans grave and stared down at the tombstone etched with words he had long since committed to memory.

"Why did you have to jump you bloody bastard?" He whispered as a wave of familiar pain washed over him. He leaned heavily on the cane he had been forced to start using again after the man's death. His limp had returned in a ten fold, only feeding to the pain he felt in his chest every damn day. With a great amount of effort he slowly knelt. Worn hands ran over the cool stone and he was forced to take a deep breath. He just couldn't do it anymore. Life had become too much, and emotionless, black pit that he could not dig himself out of.

Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a familiar weapon. His pistol was old, and a service weapon he had barely used for 3 years. Not since him. This was the first time it had seen the light of day in three years. The barrel was wold and when he placed it against his forehead, his hand shook violently. It was kind of poetic, in a sick twisted way. The man who had saved his life all that time go would be the reason he took it now. He had thought about going to Bart's, and jumping from the top, but he had decided against it. The blood still stained the concrete, though it had faded to a dull brown now. He was loath to add his own to the stone. 'This will work' he thought to himself bitterly.

"JOHN!"

The army doctor didn't turn, didn't react as he heard his name yelled. God he was bloody losing it now. He could swear that it was Sherlock's voice shouting at him from behind. A bitter smile crossed his lips and he quietly said "No matter.' a small click sounded as he flicked the safety from on to off.

"JOHN STOP"

The voice was close now, and John could not help the bitter laugh that pushed from his lips. At least he would have his delusions of the man before his death. "Goodbye" he mouthed and he readied to pull the trigger.

Next thing he knew the gun had gone off, but instead of against his forehead, it had been shot into the sky and lay a few feet away on the grass, something weighing heavily on his chest.

"JOHN, JOHN?"

No it couldn't be. He was truly insane now. Or maybe this was death, as there was no way that Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective was laying on top of him just having stopped his suicide attempt. He pushed the person off and scrambled to his feet. The gun was only a few feet away, he could still get at it. The person though read his mind and wrapped skinny arms around the army doctor.

"John dammit, stop fighting it's me"

He stopped struggling for a moment and looked into the impossible eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"No" he whispered, struggling once more than before Sherlock had 'revealed' himself. This wasn't real, it couldn't be. "NO!" he almost shouted, pushing the man away. He scrambled back and stared at his old flat mate unbelieving. Sherlock was skinnier than he remembered, and his face was covered in bruises and small cuts scars. Whatever had transpired in the 3 years had not been kind to him.

Though, if he was to be honest, he was not in much better shape. His blonde hair was scruffy and he had left a dull blonde stubble cover his gaunt face. He had taken to wearing three jumpers just to hide the extremity of his weight loss. He would always find fresh biscuits around the flat whenever he would return from work, which he had grudgingly kept up for the money and a sense of normality. His appetite though had been diminished and he barely touched the cookies. Nightmares returned, and he was lucky to at most, get three, four hours of sleep each night.

Staring at Sherlock, he felt a newfound energy course through his veins. The consulting detective looked as if he was going to speak when John drew back his arm and punched him in the face. The army doctor slowly sank to his knees and sobs soon racked his body, John not even bothering to hide them. He was just too tired to fight anymore.

"I'm home John."

Deft fingers pulled his hands away and skinny arms embraced him in a comforting embrace. God John thought, he even smelt the same. His face buried in Sherlock's shoulder, and the detective in John's neck, neither spoke. John was sure he felt a few warm tears from Sherlock, but he was too overcome with himself to say anything.

The two sat in the graveyard arms wrapped around each other, neither speaking. It would take time for them to heal, but one day, they might go back, to the detective and his blogger.

But for now, it was just Sherlock and John