This first one is inspired by Mumford & Sons Little Lion Man, Sherlock and John post TRF and some feels. I definitely don't claim any ownership over the beautiful song or over the characters of the Sherlock tv series, that would be Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC

Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart

It's dark and cold outside as he watches the street. The apartment is dark, only one lamp casts eerie shadows on the bare walls. Books lie askew in piles on the floor. There is little in the apartment, he sits on the armchair, his scarf and coat keeping him warm. He grips a scalding tea tightly in his hands. His mobile phone rests on the table, the message is still open.
Don't be dead. For me- JW

Weep, little lion man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start

It had terrified him when he read it. Two years ago it had seemed so logical to leave. The only way to get rid of Moriarty was to kill himself too. He thought it would only hurt in the beginning, as the physical wounds began to heal. Molly had been there to help him, Mycroft too had assisted in his own way. Sherlock had been moved from house to house as he tracked down Moriarty's web of crime. It had been one battle after another and now he sat in the dark. His only companion was the silence.

Rate yourself and rake yourself
Take all the courage you have left

Now he was in hell. He kept an eye on John, watching him from a street corner. Sherlock knew his limp had returned, he knew he still talked out loud, he knew he still worked as a doctor. He knew he still hurt.

And waste it on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head

There is a woman in John's life now. Her name is Mary. Sherlock hasn't seen her yet, and he dreads the moment when he recognises her. He would be a stranger to her and he would know everything about her in one glance. In his mind he can see the glint of her engagement ring as she presents her hand to shake.

But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line

It isn't John, it is him. He is causing the pain. And he can't stand it. The text message lies open the backlight of the phone glaring at him in the dark. He stares at it, trying to block out the guilt and the pain.

I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?

Suddenly he grabs the mocking phone and rises from the armchair. The force knocks it over with a thud. The door slams shut and the picture frames shudder against the white wall.

Didn't I, my...

John's phone vibrates on the coffee table. Mary glances up from her newspaper, "John." The doctor hobbles over to the table and picks it up. His eyebrows knit in confusion. The message is impossible and yet he grabs his coat and rushes out the door. He's left the phone on the coffee table and his stunned fiancée picks it up. The message is still open.
I'm not dead. -SH