3rd POV

John stared out the window from his chair, his eyes red from crying tears that had dried up long ago. He watched in silence as the rain outside poured down, he felt like the sky was crying for him; for his pain and memories.

The flat was silent bar the pitter-patter of the rain against the windows, it made him sick; angry. There were no more chaotic ramblings or the sound of a violin playing away through the night; three years of silence, three years of loneliness and numbing pain.

There was a time where John craved the silence, he craved it back when he was in the army surrounded by the screaming of the injured or the firing of the guns in battle, then it was when Sherlock was rambling, screeching his violin or yelling he was bored; he craved for silence. But now he longed for the chatter, the insane chatter that made no sense to him at all.

"Oh Sherlock," he breathed out in a choke. His eyes burning as he willed himself not to cry, he couldn't cry anymore; his tears had dried up long ago. "Why did you leave me?"

Not many knew about the fact that he and Sherlock were together. He had been on one of the cases a year after he and Sherlock began to live together and Sherlock had been captured. John was the first to find him beaten, bound and gagged in a trunk while Lestrade had went on a man hunt for the asshole they were after.

Sherlock gazed up at him blearily before sighing in relief as he quickly undid the bindings and gently lifted his flatmate from the trunk.

"John…" Sherlock rasped out as he buried his head into my neck.

I couldn't help but shush him as I began to walk back towards where the squad cars were waiting with an ambulance. "Shh Sherlock, we'll get you to the ambulance so I can fix you up. It's alright now, you're safe now; I have you."

"John… I thought I would never see you…" Sherlock gasped out before breaking off in a moan of pain.

"It's okay Sherlock, just rest okay. Tell me late." I tell him, picking up my pace. Fear churned my stomach as Sherlock's opened eye rolled back into his head.

"No… John… please… I love you."

The sound of thunder and lightning clapping across the sky jolted John from the memory. The agony burned to his very soul as the memory danced tauntingly across his eyes. He let out a scream of anger before tossing the cup of cold tea against the wall, the brown liquid splattering across the wood and frames as the shattered china clattered to the floor.

He was tired and angry, angry at the way his brain tormented him with memories of Sherlock. Every day it was the illusion of his love in the flat, on the street. Always memories of him and them together in bed, on the couch even in the hall to his old room; but worst of all it was the memory of that day. The day that he had watched his best friend, his saviour and most of all his love plummet to his death from the roof of Saint Barts. He was tired, so very tired and he couldn't take the agony of it anymore.

He was truly alone in this world, everyone had given up on him long ago; even Mrs Hudson barely came up here anymore, she only did so to deliver food and then leaves before her sobs could fill the silence.

"Sherlock." John sobs as he stands on shaky legs and stumble towards the mantle where the only image of Sherlock lay. The rest was packed up and put away in fear that he would destroy them all in his rage once the hurt went away.

His cane fell to the floor with a clatter as he grasped the black frame in his shaky hand, his limp had come back with a vengeance the day of Sherlock's funeral to the point he could barely walk more than ten feet before almost collapsing in pain.

"Why did you leave me? You promised Sherlock, that you would never let me live in this dreary world on my own. Didn't you know that you were the only reason I carried on, you saved me." John choked out as he fell to his knees, his hands clutching the image close as he wept tearlessly.

The smell of gunpowder mixed with chemicals and the distinct smell of Sherlock wrapped around John like a blanket but he knew it was all in his head, his Sherlock was gone. He felt the last sliver of hope shatter as the final wall in his mind crumbled, he had no more hope, no more will to go on. There was no moving on without Sherlock; John Watson was a broken man.

Hysterical broken laughter filled the silence as John realised this, his knees shaking as he pushed himself off the floor and back over to his arm chair. Laying the image on the small table beside him he pulled out the only object that matters now from the draw, the very thing that has been there since the day of Sherlock's funeral and somehow managed to keep it hidden from Mycroft's cronies and Lestrade.

A small smile picked at the corner of John's lips as the rain poured down harder, his eyes flickering to Sherlock's chair before closing his eyes and raising his hand.

Sherlock stood in front of 221b Baker Street with hope and fear in his heart, his mission was complete and now he could finally return home. But as he stood here before his home – if he could still call it that – in the rain, he was afraid. Was John still here? Did he forget him?

No, John would never forget me… his mind whispered causing the hope to rise and actually make him unlock his door and slowly push it open. The way to the flat was as he remembered it, though there was something missing that he could not place. Shaking his head he slowly made his way up the stairs, nerves churning at his stomach as he grew closer to the flat. He stopped at the door, his brows pulling down as he heard silence from the other side; the noticeable lining of dust on the floor.

A loud crack filled the silence that caused Sherlock's beating heart to seize before quickening. Fear replacing any kinds of confusion as he pushed his way into the door, crying out as he saw a gun tumble to the floor followed by John's hand.

"JOHN NO!" he cried out, his feet carrying him to his love only for them to give away as he saw his John's eyes wide and unseeing with blood dripping down his face. It was then that the great Sherlock Holmes knew he was too late and nothing could fix this; it was his fault.

A/N: Oh god what have I done?

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