It had been three years, three long years since John had witnessed his friend jump. He had always managed to cling on to some hope that his best friend would be coming back. Why? He didn't know, he knew he was dead. He saw his body lying on the cold concrete, he saw the blood soak his curls, and he saw the life leave his eyes. He hates to admit it but when Sherlock died, a part of him died as well. A shame it was the only part keeping him alive.
It's funny now that the things he was so easily annoyed by he missed the most. He almost wishes Sherlock would ask him to pass his phone even though he could easily reach it himself, he wishes he could still argue with him about who's turn it was to get the milk, he wishes he could be awoken by the sound of the violin at 3am in the morning. He even wishes he could hear Sherlock insult his dates. But it had been three years, any hope he had was gone, completely.
He should be over it by now, everyone else had managed. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft. They just all tip toe around him now, afraid he'll start crying at a mere mention of his deceased best friend. They were all there for him to begin with of course they really were, but they all gave up trying in the end, John managed to dampen the mood where ever he went. He tried to get over it, god how he tried. He visited endless amount of therapists, he put all Sherlock's things away into his room, hoping if he didn't see anything to do with him, he'd eventually forget. It didn't last long though, the flat didn't feel right. He ended up dragging everything back out, and putting it all back in the flat. He had no idea how he even had the flat still, he'd quit work, if he couldn't help himself how could he help other people? Either Mrs Hudson didn't need the money, or it was something to do with Mycroft, he was leaning more towards the idea of Mycroft.
The only good thing John had managed to do in the last three years was prove Sherlock innocence, he made sure it was on every news channel, every newspaper, he made sure that everyone heard, and he would never forget that look of guilt on Anderson and Donavan's faces, that task had kept him occupied for a rather long time, but as soon as that was proven and all forgotten about, he sunk back in to his usually routine.
John stood in the centre of the living room, glancing around the room at all of Sherlocks things, his skull still sitting on the mantelpiece, his violin laying on the window sill, his chair still across from Johns. He'd sit in Sherlocks chair somedays, it never helped it just made him feel worse, but yet he couldn't bring himself to stop. He turned to face the door, hoping Sherlock would burst through and apologize for being absent. Yet it didn't happen, it would never happen and today John accepted that, today John accepted what he needed to do.
He needed to end this. He had nothing left, his sister was still an alcoholic, she had infact gotten even worse, his friends tried their hardest to avoid him. All he had was a flat, a flat that was once the home of his best friend. A flat that he couldn't stand to be in anymore. And without that, he really did have nothing. He'd gone to war, he'd been a decent doctor, he'd proven the world's greatest detective's innocence, he had left his mark on the world, and now he knew it was time to leave it.
Authors note.
Am I a bad person?
Probably.