Just before you read my small OS, I already apologise if you find any mistakes or whether it doesn't sound really English, because this is not my native language. I hope you'll enjoy though. Please review about anything either wrong or good. Thanks x (and a huge thanks to Maureen and Sara who helped me)
It has been three, or four or five months maybe since Sherlock had killed himself by jumping from the St Bart's roof. John's stopped counting since. The only thing he can remember is his dead body on the floor and his last words. His flat mate, best friend, or the man he secretly loved.
John has always loved this pretty attractive and heart-less man but was too scary about the fact he'd reject him because "sentiment is a chemical effect found on the losing side" isn't it? Despite that John loved him. Even though he had girlfriends hoping for either making him jealous or forgetting his feelings about his flat mate. But nothing had ever happened…
And now, he is alone in Baker Street, staring at this empty armchair which was Sherlock's. More lonely than even although Lestrade called once a week for being sure he's still ok. Oh dear world, how can he be all right?
John has lost around 1.5 stones since yet doesn't feel alarmed how unhealthy his habits are. He doesn't sleep properly any more. His dreams haunted by this terrible that definitely destroyed him. And all the time he would close his eyes, he'd see Sherlock and how stupid he hasn't seen this coming. He could have stopped it and helped him. He has already proved but Sherlock didn't trust did he? Anyway it was too late. Sherlock is dead and John is alone with his depression.
To himself, John isn't living any more. He is just breathing dead soul praying for his own death day after day, nightmares after nightmares.
"I created Moriarty for my own purposes".
John stood up and took a deep breath. Pain. Too much pain for one body. He sighed and walked to the kitchen and took a knife, the sharpest one he owned and went to the bathroom.
"Nobody could be that clever".
Now, he started crying and sobbing, wondering why Sherlock left him alone. He was so lonely. Anger. He undressed himself and turned the tap on. Cold or hot water, it doesn't matter any more does it?
« It's a trick, just a magic trick ».
John went into the bath. Cold but however, it was going to cold soon. He tried to relax but no success. All his lines were back in his mind for one more time, like a magic trick.
"Stay exactly where you are don't move, keep you're eyes fixed on me".
He was back there. In front of the roof with his phone in his hand, imagining he would have been there earlier to help his best friend he loved way too much. He could see Sherlock. Sherlock with his cheekbones, his black curly hair and his beautiful deep clue eyes he adored so much. But now, it was too late.
"Please. Will you do this for me?"
John took the knife now. He had prepared himself for this day. Everyone included Molly, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade and surprisingly Mycroft were aware that this situation could happen but John kept lying to them. How could he tell how depressed he felt since Sherlock has left him?
"This phone call, its my note. That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note".
He took the knife to his skin now and skinned it deeply. He felt relief when he saw the blood running down his arm, giving a dark red colour to the water melting with his tears. The end was going. His end.
He felt more and more dizzy. The water was more and more darker. It was like falling slowly asleep. He heard Sherlock's last sentence. He wanted his last word to be his name because he was going back him. He was back to the love of his life. The one hadn't had the chance to help. He wanted to be with forever and if it couldn't be earth, it'd be somewhere else then. He was ready. He had always been. For him and only him.
"Good bye John".
-Sherlock…