Due to the awesomeness that was the last episode of Sherlock, I have suddenly had an explosion of story ideas to write about, and this is one of them :) It's about John coping, or rather, not coping, with Sherlock's 'death', and the rest you shall discover as you read! :)

I'm not too keen on the name of the fic at the moment, so it may change, and if anyone can think of some better names please say :)

Just a couple of warnings about this story before we start. Firstly, I think this story is going to be pretty heavy. Of course, that's subject to opinion, but I just thought I'd say as there are going to be some dark elements. Secondly, some of the chapters, like this one, might be quite short. I haven't written them all out so I don't know, but I've planned the chapters and I think some will be quite brief, so apologies if short chapters annoy you.

Anyway, I think that's about it, I hope you like the story! Reviews are awesome :)

Prologue

There's a strange chill in the air, and yet the whole world has fallen still, as if waiting. I realise I've been holding my breath, and let out a deep sigh, but there is no one to hear it. Of course, anyone with some sense in their heads would be indoors and in bed at half three in the morning, but I think I've lost all sense.

It must be cold, but I don't feel it, I don't feel much anymore, even now I don't feel any fear. The only thing I do feel though is the dull ache slowly creeping into my arms as I hold onto the side of the bridge. Thank goodness no one is around to see me do this, no one deserves to see someone take their own life. Believe me, I know.

I look down into the dark, swelling waters below me, preparing myself to jump. There is nothing that can stop me now, my world is as empty and black as the river I stand over, but not for long.

No turning back.

I hope people in my life won't be too upset because of what I'm about to do. The last thing I want to do is hurt friends and family more than I already have done, I just hope they understand that what I'm about to do is for their own good, it's for my own good. I'm fed up with hurting people and I've run out of reasons to live, I'm just an empty machine, it's a miracle I remember to keep breathing.

Not for much longer though.

I wish I could tell everyone that I'm sorry, because I'm sure some won't like what I'm about to do, but I feel I have to do this. There's a strange certainty in my mind that this is the end. No more misery, no more suffering. This is it.

I feel like I'm not longer in control, the invisible hands of fate are pushing me forward, closer to the edge. I can't stop it, and I don't think I want to. The rustling leaves in the trees whisper, daring me to jump, daring me to fall.

Is this how Sherlock felt before he fell?

There is a small voice in the back of my head though, it's not telling me stop, it's just questioning why I'm here. And I have to admit I find myself wondering how, in just twelve weeks, my life has come to this.