His breath quivered slightly. He hesitated momentarily, but pressed it closer to his temple. He needed to do this. He couldn't handle it anymore. John screwed his eyes closed and let the memories flood back into his head again. He sees Sherlock for the first time in Bart's morgue. How he had guessed about Afghanistan and Harry even if he got the gender wrong about his sister. Time whirled forward to when John killed the cabby right before Sherlock swallowed that pill. He knew he would swallow the damned pill, even if his friend insisted otherwise. He saw Sherlock's face, the expression on it when his mind was gone. The faraway look in his eyes as his thoughts raced miles a second, figuring out minute details that would solve the case at hand. He remembered their first case, their first laugh, their first criminal chase. The man was his everything. His flatmate, his partner, his best friend. They never went into a romantic relationship, but John always loved Sherlock.
He had fallen for his flatmate a year after they first met, to the doctor's extreme surprise. John wasn't gay, nor had he ever had thoughts of other men. But Sherlock was different, he always was. He only thought of Sherlock, never of him being a amn. That never mattered to him. He didn't fall for his body, though that was always a glorious sight. No, John fell in love with is mind. His wit, his intelligence, his cunning. He held it all in though, because Sherlock was married to his work and nothing else. The worst part was that John would never tell his best friend how much he loved him.
Tears rolled down John's eyes rapidly now. Choking sobs back, he pressed the metal even closer to his temple, his finger on the trigger. He hadn't thought much about killing himself, but he had resolved to it now, exactly a year when Sherlock fell. He could still hear his voice trying to convice John he was a fake, could still see his body tumbling down and hitting the concrete. The horrible sound made when he made contact. The horrible sound of death. A sob escaped his lips and he gripped the arm chair with his free hand tightly. He had to do it now, or he wouldn't do it at all.
He opened his eyes and glanced about the room one last time. He took in the clutter on the shelves. The numerous books that littered the living room shelves. The damned skull Sherlock talked to all the time, perched on the mantle. He glanced at his laptop. He didn't think to leave a note. Didn't matter now, that would only halt this and he had to do it now. He saw the smiley face and bullet holes on the wall. Soon he would have one of his own. He sighed sadly.
"I'll see you soon, Sherlock," he whispered. And pulled the trigger.