Pain. Overwhelming consuming pain. It fills John. He can't bear it. It presses down on him like a weight. It's killing him. He can't breathe. He needs it to stop. He needs the pain to go away. He just wants it to leave him.

John stumbles to his chair half empty whiskey bottle in hand as these thoughts and emotion cloud his head. Tears run rapidly down his face. He unsteadily sets down his bottle of whiskey, spilling some. Everything tilts and turns with the slightest of movement.

He doesn't know what to do anymore. Life without Sherlock is destroying him. He never realised how dependent he was on Sherlock. How much his death has affected him. He feels like everything he has ever had and built has been ripped away, leaving him raw and open. His limp had come back worse than it has ever been, he's barely able to walk even with his cane.

He sits in his chair placing his head in his hands, he wants to scream.

"Why does Sherlock cause me so much pain? Why can't I just move on? Everyone dies. Everyone dies. EVERYONE DIES!" He shouts, picking up the whiskey bottle and throwing it against the wall. It shatters loudly and falls to the ground. The smell of whiskey permeating the air. "I can't do this. Damn it. I can't do this anymore..." John sobs. "I give up."

Mrs. Hudson was away from Baker St. for a few days, leaving John by himself. She had to attend to her family as her sister had fallen seriously ill. She convinced herself that he would be okay for a couple of days. She worries about him. She knows he has been drinking heavily. She tried to talk to him, but he shuts her out, demanding that she leave his flat. She feels so useless. She can't console him or be the voice of reason. So, she leaves when he asks, crying when she shuts the door. She can hear John upstairs. Every time he cries or moans Sherlock's name in his sleep, she can hear it and she doesn't know what to do or how to help him. So, she just cries.

John's by himself, alone. Always alone now. Mrs. Hudson tried to help him, but he always pushes her away and he doesn't know why. He knows that she cannot help him. He is lost now. Nothing can ever help him. It's be best for him to just leave.

With that final thought, John picks up his hand gun from the coffee table and brushes the barrel against his temple, closing his eyes. He sits there for a while, feeling the shape of the gun in his hand and the barrel against his head. John opens his eyes and grabs the notepad and pen that sat next to his gun on the coffee table and begins to write.

"I'm sorry. To everyone. I can't live like this anymore. I've tried. God knows I've tried so hard. But I can't live without him. I can't live without Sherlock. He's not coming back to me. So, I'm going to him. This is my note and I'm so sorry for leaving like this. Tell Harry I love her and that everything that I have is hers now. Mrs. Hudson - There is rent money in an envelope in my nightstand. It'll cover the rent for a year. I know you will have a hard time renting after this. You have been great, so great to me and to Sherlock. Thank you and I'm sorry for the mess."

John lets the pen fall to the ground, not carrying where it goes. He won't need it anymore. He cocks the gun, the sound echoing through the quiet room and places the gun in its final spot on his left temple. He has never felt so sure about what he was about to do right now. He's ready to take his own life to be with Sherlock. It's what he wants. It's what he needs. He closes his eyes, the tears stopping. Peace finally coming over him.

"I'm coming for you, Sherlock. Please be waiting for me." John whispers to himself as he pulls the trigger.

To be continued...