John went to the building every day. The building at which his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, committed suicide. It was not an easy thing to do by all means, but it comforted him, in a way. It let him know that all of the amazing adventures he had with the detective were indeed real and not just a figment of his imagination.
The next visit, though, would be different.
The pain of losing the detective was beginning to become unbearable. He would get flashes of scenes of their cases, of the times when he was rude and John didn't want a thing to do with him. He wished he would have stopped questioning his motives and just spent the time he had with them. But there was nothing he could do now. Nothing but slowly fade. And finally, during the night, he snapped. John knew that the next time he went to visit the building, he would jump. Just like Sherlock did.
The next morning, he sat down on Sherlock's couch and began writing a letter to Ms. Hudson.
Dearest Ms. Hudson,
Thank you. Thank you for putting up with me, for putting up with him. For being here for me through this incredibley hard time and being here every step of the way to ensure I get to my theripist and that I eat and stay healthy. Thank you for how you used to put up with Sherlock and I- I know that probably wasn't an easy thing to do by all means.
Hot tears were streaming down John's face by now. He choked back a sob, gripped the pen tighter, and continued.
I know that you don't deserve to be waken by me every night. By my sobs, my screams, my dreams. I'm very sorry for that. But you won't have to do that anymore.
It sounds like such an irresponsible thing to do, but I just can't stand being anywhere without Sherlock. I was alone. I owe him so much. I owe you so much. I'll be gone by the time you read this- hopefully. I can't thank you enough for everything you have done for me. I'll miss you.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. John Watson.
The tears suddenly gone, his face expressionless, John set the note down on the small table that Ms. Hudson always set the tea on. He grabbed his coat and simply walked out the door. He had his mind set on one thing- being able to see Sherlock again.
He caught a cab to his destination. Being as inconspicuous as he could, he slinked into the building and up the stairs. Standing before the big door that led to the roof, he set his forehead on the cool metal and took a staggering breath. He thought his plan through, he thought about everything. Everything and anything before he fell. He wanted to die feeling complete. But there would always be that one big chunk missing until after he was gone. He slowly opened the heavy door, a gust of cool wind hitting him instantly. He breathed in the fresh air, lightly swayed in the breeze. He walked to the edge, right where he saw Sherlock from the ground below. He took a deep breath, put one foot over the edge, and prepared to jump.
But just as he was about to lean forward, long arms wrapped around his chest and yanked him back onto the roof floor. Landing on his bad shoulder, he cried out in pain and rolled around to see the person who interrupted his plan.
"Hello, John." Sherlock greeted, his voice flat. But, not being able to deny the sudden events, a tear slowly trickled down his pale cheek.
"Sherlock. You're alive!"