John lasted a full year of barely eating, working and spending his weekends at Sherlock's grave before he cracked, every second was agony and the black hole of misery in his stomach was constantly growing and contaminating all thoughts and actions until it took effort to crawl out of his bed. He decided that his existence was just pointless without that amazing man; all he took was his gun and one of Sherlock's scarves to Sherlock's gravesite.

John leant against the gravestone, the gun on top of the massive marble stone and the scarf around his neck. It was getting dark so John decided it was time, he felt neither hesitation nor fear, he lifted the gun up under his chin and pulled the trigger, click, frowning in confusion John opened the barrel of the gun to find the previously loaded gun devoid of any bullets.

John stood up, grabbing his cane that was constantly by his side now and turning around; there was absolutely no movement except for the sway of the giant trunked trees' many dangling branches. He sighed in frustration; maybe he was going mad and had only thought he had loaded the gun? What if there had been someone else in the graveyard with him that had stolen the bullets? But why would they only take the bullets for, when they could just grab the whole gun? Sherlock would have known, and with the thought he slumped down again, tears welling up and spilling haphazardly down his face while he took shaky breaths. This was too much, why couldn't he just die? Sherlock had died and he was the most brilliant man on the planet, John was just an invalid army doctor who was jobless and almost homeless, he didn't matter.

The next day decided that he would go the way Sherlock did, off the top of St Bart's. He often wondered what Sherlock's last moment falling through the air had felt like, well now he got to know. He wore a simple shirt and jeans and as he stood near the edge of the building, cane discarded on the ground, looking out at the city alive and thriving around him, in his pocket was a simple note.

I can't live without him.

John W

It was short, yet it was all he knew, that existence without Sherlock was pointless. He stepped up onto the ledge and spreading his arms out began to tip forward, eyes closed and the name 'Sherlock' on his lips. He was almost over the edge when he was forcefully pulled back, so forcefully that he and his supposed 'savior' fell on top of each other, John on top of this tall stranger's chest. "What the bloody hell do you think your doing?" he said with barely any venom, he had become as emotionless as Sherlock used to be after the other mans death. John started to crawl desperately to the edge while the unknown person behind him got his breath back; he was suddenly being dragged by his foot to the middle of the roof. He stood and turned around to abuse the guy "cant you just let me…" he trailed off, for there, right in front of him, was Sherlock, wearing his same old coat and what appeared to be a worried look on his face. "How…What..?" he stepped closer to him and reached out to touch him before reconsidering it and punching him in the face.

Sherlock staggered back a few paces and brought his hand up to his face, "How could you? I thought you were dead Sherlock! Dead!" he felt hot tears trail down his face as he took a step towards Sherlock as he shouted, it didn't make sense, he'd seen Sherlock fall and seen his corpse be carted off. "I got too big, too noisy; I had to step back into the shadows for a while." Sherlock said as way of explaination and wrapped John up in a tight embrace "I am here, I did not die."

Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

- Mary Elizabeth Frye