The days since Sherlock's death had been long and drawn out. John found himself drowning in the sorrow of losing his best friend, his only true friend. There were still traces of the man in 221B, his smell still lingered in the old flat and John found it agonising every time he brushed past one of Sherlock's dressing gowns to find his scent waft into the air around him. So many mysteries surrounding Mr. Holmes, so many words that the young army doctor had not said and that's what bothered him. He had let himself love a man that could never return his feelings; Sherlock had once said he considered himself married to his work, john felt he was stupid to think his consulting detective could ever love him and now it seemed he would never find out.
John had always hated smoking, a nasty habit he thought 'bad for breathing' but then again Sherlock had always said breathing was boring, he never did understand what he meant by that. As john walked the now empty streets of London he found himself gravitating towards the smokers: He liked the smell, it made him remember. On bad days John would sit in his arm chair in 221B and stare at the ceiling just thinking, he would remember his friends face, those sharp cheekbone, and those piercing eyes that could tell you your life story just by looking at your face. Yes, John thought, Sherlock could read anything except of course Johns true feelings for him but of course that wasn't exactly his division.
Three years it had been, why did he still feel this way John pondered whilst sitting in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, even now he still expected to open the fridge to find one of Sherlock's experiments; He never did!
John was in pain, more pain than any of his friends could imagine. He'd considered suicide obviously but never could bring himself to pull the trigger or take that one step of the top of a tall building to join his detective, he guessed this was because he knew how it felt, how it felt to have someone close to you ripped out of this world forever; he couldn't do that to the handful of people that still cared for him. Those people who had been there the long days and weeks that followed Sherlock's tragic death, all the days where he barely spoke and only got out of bed to grab some more tissues to sob into.
But today was different, today John had had enough. He was done with the pain and sorrow and had decided that he wasn't going to recover from his grief he cared for Sherlock too much to just go on in life without him, he had made his decision. On this particular day a documentary had been released on Sherlock Holmes the genius fraud. John just couldn't do it anymore he could not continue to live when the only human being in the world who he truly loved was dead!
So John Hamish Watson, army doctor, colleague and friend of Sherlock Holmes the world's only consulting detective went to his desk and pulled out a gun slowly raising it to his temple took a slow shaky breath and whispered 'I believed and loved Sherlock Holmes.'