A/N: Hello! This one's a little depressing, and it contains thoughts of suicide. If this could be a trigger, then please don't read on. Oh, and if you liked this, or even if you didn't, please review. I personally love it when I get constructive criticism, and everyone likes compliments! This is different than Soliloquy when it comes to writing styles. Enjoy. -The Lighthouse's Keeper
The man stood across the street, merely a shadow cast by a steetlamp. Merely a shadow of who he used to be. He waited and he watched and his heart broke.
John had given up. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, none of them had managed to get through, though not for lack of trying. He knew that if he had look at himself in the mirror, he would see the face of a soldier who had lost everything, and he was no stranger to that.
"John? You there?" It was Lestrade. "Open the door. John?"
John didn't move. Lestrade didn't care. He barged in, looking cross. When his eyes found the small figure curled up around a violin, looking out the window, his stern expression crumpled and he held back tears.
"John, come to dinner. Get out of the flat or something. It's been three years, John. He's not coming back." Lestrade reached over to grab his friend's shoulder ahem John spoke.
"Don't you see, Greg? That's the problem. I already know he's not coming back." No one comes back from the dead. Not any of the men from Afghanistan and not Sherlock. "But that only makes it worse." John's voice was gravelly, partly from sorrow and partly because he hadn't spoken in weeks. He had no reason to.
"John... You've got to get over it. You've seen men die before and I'm sure you didn't spend three years wallowing for them!"
"Sherlock was not just any man, Greg! He was everything to me. Without him I would be dead. I-" he stopped abruptly.
"You what, John?" Lestrade's voice was low and quiet. He took a step toward John, who had stood up quickly. The violin fell to the ground and both men heard a sickening crack. John's face shattered, his eyes blinking rapidly. He stared at the violin for a few moments.
"John, I'm really sorry.
"Get out, Lestrade."
"John, I-"
"Get out."
Lestrade looked sadly at his friend, who looked like the final shred of his heart had been ripped from his chest. He swallowed and turned towards the door. As he shut the door and walked down the stairs, he heard footsteps from upstairs and John rummaging around. He pulled out his phone and fired off a text.
Watch John.
GL
I will.
MH
The man in question was scurrying around his bedroom, digging through his bureau. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He walked down the stairs, tightening his hand around it. John looked at the broken violin. He felt no doubts. He had nothing left, just an empty heart. He closed his eyes, raised the Browning to his temple, and gulped.
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
"Not so fast." A long, slender hand grabbed his wrist and John's eyes flew open. He dropped the gun and turned around.
"Sherlock?"
"Hello, John."