WARNING: major angst/eventual slash/bad language
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK OR ANY CHARACTERS
"You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times that I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human human being I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. I was so alone and I owe you so much, please there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Just don't be dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it."
Three years later...
John Watson sighed as he sat in his usual chair at 221B Baker Street staring at the usual violin which had been sitting in the same exact spot for the last three years staring back at him, haunting him. He hadn't been able to bring himself to touch it since the fall. The event that sounded so simple, trivial even if dreaded. The meaning behind that one word now had an irrevocable impact on John every single time he heard it. It represented not only the death of his best friend, but a change in himself and every person connected to Sherlock Holmes.
Nothing was the same. The good doctor had not yet found himself capable of leaving Baker Street although Mrs. Hudson had moved on some time ago. The poor woman could no longer watch John waste away. It would be the same every night. John would work late, then come home to pour himself a drink, and sit down staring at the old violin for some time until he could no longer torture himself. Only then would he allow himself to head to bed even though it would be hours until he actually fell asleep and he would only allow himself the minimum amount of rest. The sweet woman couldn't stand watching him stumble down stairs every morning looking like he had fought another war all night long, a war with himself. The two of them still kept in touch of course. Mrs. Hudson popped in to make sure the doctor was eating and such. John did miss her though.
John stood up abruptly and strode swiftly over to the violin without another thought he threw his shaking hand toward the instrument stopping just short of touching it. His hand shook more violently and he tried to push it to touch the last tangible object that was purely Sherlock but he couldn't do it. Instead he swung the same hand around and punched a glass vase sitting near it with a strangled cry. The vase shattered and the roses that had rested inside of it now lay on the floor, their red coloring bleeding into the carpet. The doctor sunk to the floor clutching his bleeding hand.
What was wrong with him. Was he mad? He thought he had finally moved on with his life. He had been engaged to Mary and he was going to start over in a new city, but no, Mary knew. She knew he didn't have enough room in his heart to hold them both. She also knew who would have won if John were forced to choose, just as every other woman he dated knew. She left him looking almost exactly as he did now, crying in front of that damned violin. The only difference would have been at that time John was screaming Sherlock's name. It was a bad night. John still didn't understand how everyone just moved on... and expected him to do the same. Okay, so maybe there was more to the Holmes/Watson relationship than friendship. John's therapist sure seemed to think so. But he didn't see what admitting it would do now, it wouldn't make a difference. Sherlock was gone. Sherlock was gone.
Sherlock was gone and John was still there, lying on the floor with wet dead roses, a broken vase, his hand dripping blood, and the violin still left untouched beside him on it's stand.
PLEASE REVIEW! Any criticism or suggestions are welcome! This is my firs Sherlock fic ever. I do hope you enjoyed it though and this story WILL continue. Thanks for reading :)