My first Sherlock fanfic, so it may not be that good. Once again, I don't own any of the characters. Thanks!
John knew he shouldn't be here. He knew the pain would get worse. He knew that it was a bad idea. But, despite this, he couldn't bring himself to leave.
Looking up to the roof of St Bartholomew's hospital, visions of the event that happened exactly 3 months ago danced in Watson's tired eyes. He could see Sherlock, standing on the edge of the roof with his arms stretched out, ready to jump. As much as it pained him, John came here every month, desperate to work out what exactly happened and gain a shred of hope that Sherlock could possible still be alive. His tears ran freely down his face but were invisible against the icy rain being thrown from the miserable dark grey clouds above the city. Sherlock disappeared, like ash being carried away in the breeze. Watson was alone again.
