Disclaimer: Not mine.
I've no Beta so all the mistakes are mine. Each review makes me happy.
Now translated into Russian by leeloque on AO3.
So tired
It had been weeks since he had seen his therapist the last time; there was no point. Why should he make his and Ella's life more miserable? He couldn't talk to her about it; he couldn't talk to anyone about it. The only person he had trusted, his best friend, was dead since two years now.
John sat in his tiny beige apartment in front of his laptop, staring at the blank side of his blog. Ella wanted him to write again. But since the ... incident, there was nothing to write about. He lacked the energy. He only went out if he couldn't avoid it, for the shopping for example. His limp was back, he had to use his cane again. That was almost the worst, because he had loved to walk through London. Damn the lame leg. He closed his laptop and left the flat.
Once a week he went to the cemetery. He always brought fresh flowers, then he sat down and sometimes he talked to him. Only then he felt a little better. He leaned against the black shiny stone with the golden letters and closed his eyes. Here he allowed himself to indulge his fantasies and hallucinations. Even two years after his death he couldn't get over it. He didn't understand why. In Afghanistan he lost some really good friends and it had been difficult, but now he felt so lost; he had never felt like this before. Although, that's not quite true. Before he knew him, he felt almost as lonely as today. Back then he had thought for the first time about ending this.
He looked at the gun in his hands. His gun, it felt cool and familiar and safe. Not for the first time he sat there and wondered if the time had come to let it end, here and now. It made no difference anyway; actually, he was already dead. He could not work anymore and was useless. The last time he had been at 221B was a few days after the funeral, and even visiting Mrs. Hudson felt increasingly difficult to him. Finally he had to be honest to himself, he was a wreck. Only a shadow of himself, and he was so tired.
When it got dark he was ready. He kept his gun in both hands and put the barrel in his mouth. He was not pathetic, so he wanted to bring it to an end without making a fuss.
He closed his eyes and took a last breath.