'It gets better.'

Everyone promised that; and for the first few months everyone made an effort – they "understood" what John was going through. Mycroft paid the rent for 221B; Mrs. Hudson made sure there was food in the flat, Molly and Greg called round to visit periodically – and John sat in his chair, numb to the world. He dwelt upon those final days – when it had all turned, and not just the press – it had been his friends also… The game had been sculpted to perfection; it planted fear and doubt – it transported Sherlock from the height of genius, from his renown as a sensation – to a mistrusted object, a trickster, a liar – a fraud. That wasn't even the worst part – it had been the reaction of his friends: Mycroft had given Moriarty information, Greg had succumbed to the doubt that was sweeping through the public, and John had watched, as Sherlock seemed to disintegrate. John had not been immune; the thoughts had crossed his mind as Sherlock lost control… But he knew, in his gut and his heart, that Sherlock was innocent… Then Sherlock had jumped – and John's heart had been ripped out of his ribcage.

'It gets better.'

They promised – as the truth came out, as Sherlock was lamented; and the public posted commiserating messages on John's blog, and the media discussed what a tragedy it was that such a great man had been driven to kill himself… and John was full of anger at everyone else, and consumed with hatred of himself. They acknowledged the loss – but no apology was given. It was like his army days in repeat: recognizing bravery and sacrifice, but taking no responsibility.

And they said it would get better, but it didn't… All that happened was that the length of time stretched – and people forgot… Sherlock stopped being a topic of discussion, people stopped commiserating John – and they expected him to be back to normal, like his best friend hadn't killed himself. None of them could understand just how vacant he felt; how lost he was… Sherlock had saved him when they first met; he had brought vibrancy and energy back into a world that had seemed hopeless. Now he was gone, he slid back into the numb, disconsolate mind set that had plagued him before.

'Be patient, it takes time…'

How much time? How many days was he supposed to struggle through? When getting out of bed was too draining; and the curtain stayed shut because he hadn't showered, or dressed in over a week; or when the thought of food turned his stomach…

Molly came round, but often sat in silence with John; her expression pained- it made John feel worse, he knew she wanted to help him... but no one could help. Greg made extra efforts too, he invited John out for a drink, or suggested that they should go and see a football game, or something. But they always gave up as John repeated his answer: no.

'It will get better.'

John had tried – he'd really tried… He'd made the effort to get out of the flat, to go back to some kind of semblance of a life, but he ended up in the same place every time.

John knew the truth… He knew that what they said were lies; white lies – intended to make him feel hopeful, intended to help him heal… But the gaping hole in his chest - a chasm that grew wider and wider slowly engulfing everything that had ever given him purpose – wasn't going to get better… It was only ever going to deepen; and John couldn't bear it any further. He was never going to be "John Watson – confirmed bachelor, blogger, and best friend to Sherlock Holmes" ever again – he was just John, a lost and lonely man. He was a mere shadow of what he had once been, during the best times of his life, and he wanted to be remembered for those days… Not for the days stuck in a flat, sitting in the dark, wasting away so none of his clothes fit and his knees couldn't support his weight. There was nothing left for him.

'It will never get better.'

Two years, eight months and twenty three days. John lasted nearly three years, he had held out – hoping in some vain chance that the torment might lessen, that his guilt might ease – that it might get better. He had given himself that chance, he had tried… and he had failed. He wanted out. He wanted the pain and suffering, his guilt, and the anguish of memories that were no longer happy, he wanted it to end.

John stood at the bay window of the flat, staring down blankly into the road below – the rumble of cars seemed so far away, the echoes of humanity becoming more distant as John surrendered himself to the end. He was ready for the end: it was time… Time to join Sherlock, time to make this better…

His mind was set, but his body couldn't understand – his fingers trembled as he held a glass under the tap, and pushed the tablets out of their foil cases. His heart pounded so loudly that all other sound was obliterated and the back of his eyes stung with tears that had taken so long in coming. He knew what was likely to happen – he was still competent enough to know that the drugs would sweep through him, making him drowsy – causing pain… but he didn't care, at least he would feel something before the end.

For the first time, since before those final days with Sherlock, John felt at peace… He was not concerned that in a few hours, Mrs. Hudson would knock on the front door and enter the flat to find his body. It didn't bother him that there would be only 5 people who would actually realise he was gone. None of it mattered anymore.

The hairs on the back of John's neck were standing on end as he sat down on the sofa; he was sitting in the direction of Sherlock's armchair – one of the only pieces in the flat which had remained entirely untouched since Sherlock had last sat in it. Ten tablets, twelve tablet, sixteen tablets – twenty two… John was out of water, his mouth was dry and he was sure that his heart was going to break free from his chest; the end was so close. John relaxed back into the cushions of the sofa; he closed his eyes to prevent him seeing the room spinning; his arms and legs were becoming heavy as though they were being weighed down by lead and the thought of sleep was so inviting… He could just lay down on the sofa and drift away…

His head resting against the arm of the sofa, he could feel his breathing slowing down as he was ready to slip away… He was sure that the thudding he could hear must be from inside his head, and the sudden lightness that seemed to be shining through his eyelids was the end.

"John! John!" He was vaguely aware of a voice calling his name – as though from the dark recesses of his mind, but a hand had fastened around the back of his neck and was forcing his head upright and fingers were jamming into his mouth, wrenching his jaw apart with considerable force. John screwed up his eyes, opening them against the light and knew he was hallucinating… Pale and terrified looking, Sherlock Holmes was peering into his face – it was his fingers pulling at John's mouth. "What did you take John?!" The words were fuzzy and far away; John closed his eyes again – he didn't want to see Sherlock, he didn't want a reminder of the guilt.

"You're not real…" John whispered, as the fingers pulling down at his teeth retracted. "I know you're not."

"I am John! What did you take?" He begged, shaking John's shoulders more roughly than John would have liked – he wanted to sleep. "JOHN! You can't do this! Not now!" Sherlock pleaded, "What did you take?" John shook his head. Maybe he was dying? Perhaps this was the last burst of chemicals in his head – giving him the last chance of what he wanted: a chance to see Sherlock again, to know that Sherlock cared… "John…!" Sherlock's voice was trembling; "I can't let you go! I'm sorry…" It must be the end, as they were the words that he had longed to hear for so long…

His mind was becoming more and more detached; the external world less definite. The grip that was holding onto the back of John's neck tightened – forcing his head upright and leaning forwards, then fingers were rammed forcefully into his mouth and down his throat. John could feel his body react, lurching forward as the fingers acted as a manual reject; and he vomited. His mind was sinking further and further, until the blackness consumed him…

John became aware of a gentle murmuring… was this it? Was he dead? If he was, then it was very soft – and warm. He felt remarkably comfortable… A white brightness was shining through his closed eyelids, and something was gripping tightly onto his hand. John opened his eyes and took in his surroundings with some disbelief; he was on a bed, a sheet tucked right up under his arms – and Sherlock Holmes was at the edge of his bed, his hand gripping tightly onto John's hand. His face was pale, thin and wan, dark circles present underneath his eyes and a look of absolute terror across his features. The second that John opened his eyes, Sherlock spoke:

"John?" The hand on top of John's squeezed tightly.

"I'm dead... aren't I?" John croaked, closing his eyes- this was torture, seeing Sherlock like this.

"No you're not." Sherlock answered; John opened his eyes again and stared at the figure in front of him. If he wasn't dead then he was hallucinating!

"You're not real..." he groaned, "I know you're not real! You're dead..."

"I'm not dead John..." Sherlock's voice had dropped in pitch and it was quivering. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

"I saw you jump." John said matter of factly, refusing to allow the delusional part of his mind to trick him into thinking this was real.

"It wasn't real John! I'm so sorry!" Sherlock's voice implored, "I didn't ever think it would have this effect on you- I thought you'd carry on..." John opened his eyes, still disbelieving that this was happening. "I wanted to protect you..."

"What…?" John murmured, "I don't believe you…" Sherlock took hold of John's wrist, pulling his hand up and placing it firmly on his chest.

"I'm alive John!" He insisted, the palm of John's hand pressed against Sherlock's chest and he could feel the thud of his heart pressing into his skin. "I've been taking down Moriarty's gang; I didn't want to put you at risk!" John pushed himself upright very abruptly, his hand still on Sherlock's chest.

"You… you… you…?" John stammered, "You're… you're really alive?!"

"I am…" Sherlock looked ashamed, "I thought I was saving you from them… I didn't realise that it would affect you quite so much…"

"I… you…" John was shaking his head in confusion, "I thought…"

"I'm sorry…" Sherlock apologised; there were a few split seconds in which John stared at Sherlock, feeling the pulsing of Sherlock's heart which was confirming the reality of this situation. Then John gripped the hand on Sherlock's chest in the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in towards him: he kissed Sherlock hard on the mouth, for the first few seconds Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised – then he seemed to relax; kissing John back.

"You are a bastard…" John whispered as they broke apart, resting his forehead gently against Sherlock's. "I can't… you're…"

"I'm sorry… I never meant to hurt you…" Sherlock told him honestly, "I'll make it up to you… I'll never do anything like that again!"

"You better not!" John exclaimed; but for some reason, Sherlock's eyes were watering. "What?"

"I… I'm really glad I found you John…" He was biting his lip. "I can't imagine what would have happened if I hadn't…" He dropped his head, taking an instant fascination in the floor.

"You… you would know how I felt then…" John said slowly.

"I'm sorry…" Sherlock repeated for about the fifth time. "I'll make it up to you, I promise… I'm not going anywhere..."

"You'd better not…" John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him into a tight hug.

"I promise, I'm here now." Sherlock held John close to him. "It's all better now."

A/N: I wrote this partly through the prompt of an anon on tumblr, and also partly inspired by this post:
post/57447494728/watsonsdick-isidewiththeangels-bu tiamnotone

I hope you enjoyed reading it, I'd love to know what you thought of it!