'It has been one month since your death. Since you proclaimed to the world that you were a falsified genius. Since the world believed you. Your final trick.
Mycroft told me why you did it. You saved your friends. You traded your life for ours. You saved me but at the same time you left me here, the broken shell of a man who had been broken before. A vase whose shattered pieces cannot all be found. I am together but not whole. I can no longer serve the purpose I felt to be my own.
I cannot glance around our (my) flat anymore. It brings an empty feeling in me. Makes me feel like something was ripped out of my very soul. Ella says what I'm describing is grief. She also says that writing to you may help alleviate some of my pain. She didn't say these would be my last thoughts though.
We both know I think almost everything Ella says is rubbish. Have you guessed what this really is yet? If you were alive you would have.
Because that's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.
I figured in the last documentation of my thoughts I could tell you what I never would be able to say in real life. Now, I can explain how I longed to feel the warmth of your body; your supple lips against my cracked ones. I wanted your love to soothe the wounds the war had so delicately carved into me, like it's very own canvas. I wanted to know how my hands would feel running through your curls. Maybe, if there really is an afterlife I'll get my chance. If not, it's not like I'll know the difference.
Please, if you're alive, give me a sign. Anything. Don't let me leave too early.
I love you, Sherlock Holmes. See you soon. JW'
John put down the phone. He could no longer read his words through the tears.
"Press send, you coward.", he said to himself "You wrote the entire thing out just to stare at it? You are an idiot, John Watson."
Glancing around for his suspected last time, John Watson hit send. Taking the gun from its place on the table, he brought it shakily to his temple. The barrel was painfully cool but the promise of relief was inviting.
"I'm sorry Mom, Dad. Harry, Mrs. Hudson, I am so so sorry."
Through his goodbye, John did not hear the light footfall on the stairs. He did not hear the door open behind him nor the labored breathing coming from the visitor. He only noticed he was not alone when his finger edged its way to the trigger and a hand lay on his shoulder. A pale, familiar hand with long fingers, covered with unfamiliar scars.
"John. Don't leave. I've only just returned. Besides, what would Mrs. Hudson think?"