Empty. That's how he wished he felt. He begged for the nothingness.
Wanting a relief from the raging animal that was his emotions. Always roaring and clawing, rending his insides apart. On that day his soul shattered, leaving nothing behind but the animal.
In his hand he held the only thing that could comfort him. It's his only escape from this unbearable reality.
He lifted it and gently pressed the barrel of the gun to his chin.
He blinks sluggishly. Already anticipating the moment when he will no longer feel anything.
You haven't suffered enough.
He set the gun down, missing the feeling of the cold metal against his jaw.
You should have done something. You could have stopped him… The though seemed to repeat itself, with each manifestation a new throb of mental anguish swept over him.
He relives the moment, trapped.
"Goodbye John." He watched as his friend stepped off the roof. He saw the plummet to the ground. Blood seeping onto the sidewalk, staining John's vision red. The feeling of strangers' hands touching him, pulling him away from his friend, the nauseating stillness of Sherlock's wrist. No pulse.
He whimpered into the darkness.
He wasn't worthy of the relief it would bring.
He silently closed his eyes, surrendering to the flames of his guilt once more, already burning.