{AN: Hello! This is yet another Fanfic I have written for a friend of mine. If you look at the cover picture thingy, you can see where I found the inspiration for this fic, and you will be experiencing many feels. I believe it is a very beautiful piece of fan art, and give the artist credit, for I am writing fanfiction to their creation. This first chapter is very short. Chapter two should be longer.. I think. I hope. Whatever, you've stopped reading at this point I just hope you enjoy XD}
A Very Short Chapter 1
John sat with his back slouched against the old armchair in complete darkness, eyes staring into the fireplace that held smoking ashes from the past burning fire. It had been five months since Sherlock Holmes had fell from the building in London. Five months since John had been able to have a proper night of sleep. Five months since John had been able to feel any essence of happiness or hope. It was over, he wasn't coming back. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and what had he done to prevent it? Just watched. He watched him die.
"He's my friend, let me through!"
The memories reenacted in his mind constantly, and despite the therapy he had attended in hope of helping him through the loss of such a special and important person in his life, nothing could ever bring him back. That was all he wanted.
He was a wreck, John was, a complete mess. His hair was unkempt and his eyes looked utterly exhausted along with the rest of his features. The repeated thoughts of hearing his name 'John' be spoken through Sherlock's lips in that stern, deep tone made the war doctor only long more. He needed to hear him again, just to see him would suffice for the 160 days he had managed through without the consulting detective.
There he sat, not a muscle moving except for his eyes that read over the past text messages he had sent to Sherlock over time, obviously without any response. They had all been delivered after the incident.
Sherlock... One more. Just one more miracle for me, Sherlock. -JW
This is not real. It never happened. Come home. -JW
He pushed his thumb up the screen to read further:
No one can ever convince me that you were a fake, Sherlock. I believe in you. And I know you are still out there. -JW
Just come home... -JW
His eyes began to gleam with the hint of tears as he continued:
Things are not the same anymore. I'm not sure how long I can handle this. -JW
Just give me a sign. Anything. -JW
John blinked as he sighed shakily and moved both hands to the keypad to type, a single set of tears slipping down his cheeks:
It has been nearly six months, Sherlock Holmes. This is tearing me apart. I will have to fully accept that you are now gone, and I can not change that. All I wish is that I could be with you now... I wish I could have saved you. I was your friend, and I am sorry. But if you cannot come back to me, then I will come to you. I can't go through this torture of living without you any more. -JW
John Watson hesitated before clicking send and swallowing, allowing the phone to drop into his lap as he reached over for the gleaming pistol resting on the table beside him. It was silent. He raised the barrel to his temple and slowly closed his eyes before taking a deep breath, one finger resting to the trigger. This was it. He would finally be with him again. He could tell Sherlock of all the things he had held back for so long, and they could be together.