John rubs the sleepiness away from his eyes and sits up in bed. He hasn't seen Sherlock's face in the bed next to him every time he has woke up since...that day.
The day he saw his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, jump off of a building.
Saw him fall to his death.
Fought his way to Sherlock through the crowd saying, "He's my friend."
Taking his pulse, checking to see if he was alive.
He wasn't.
John draws in a shaky breath and heads towards the kitchen after slipping on his dressing gown. He opens the fridge, hoping to see Sherlock's surviving experiments in the fridge, but he only sees normal groceries.
Suddenly, the phone rings. John staggers over to the phone to get it.
"Hello?"
"Yes, Dr. Watson, I presume?"
"This is him, may I ask who's calling?"
"This is the the Chief of the General staff for the British Army. You're wanted back in service, Dr. Watson."
John's eyes widen and his mouth drops. He shakes his head in disbelief.
"I still have time. At least, I thought I did. What has happened now?"
"Your time of leave is over, Dr. Watson. We need you back in the field. More soldiers are getting shot every day and none of the doctors we have are sufficient. Will you come?"
John's mind is racing. This can't be happening. He thinks of all the things he still has yet to do. He hasn't posted a single thing on his blog since that day. He hasn't had a girlfriend since the previous year and they never had anything serious. The only person he wants right now is...
Sherlock.
"Can't I just stay here in London for a few more days?"
There is a chuckle on the other end of the phone. "I don't think so, Dr. Watson. We need you now. If you don't help now, more soldiers will die. More people have died in this war than in your previous one."
This sentence sends shivers up John's spine. He can't even bear to think of his last days in service. So many of his friends. Dead. Just like that.
"John? Are you still on the line?"
"Yes. I've decided. I-I'll go."
"Brilliant. Report to the base at 1800 hours. See you then."
-click-
John presses the END button on his phone and sets it on the table. He slinks down in the armchair and sighs. I am such a pathetic waste of a human, John thinks, and he can't help but think that maybe the service is something he can't bear to stand any longer.
John runs to his room and opens the drawer in his desk. He pulls out a handgun, the one he hasn't used since the study in pink. Opening it cautiously, he checks for bullets. Just one.
Perfect.
He puts the gun in his robe pocket and slumps down to sit on the edge of his bed. John takes the gun out of his pocket. He holds it in his right hand, studying the textures of the metal.
He closes his eyes.
He opens his mouth and rests the muzzle of the gun just inside, resting on his lower front teeth. The taste of the gun is odd and metallic inside of his mouth. The cold metal feels strange and alien. He has only attempted this once before, only to try to relieve stress of his life.
Only...that time, Sherlock saved him.
Sherlock. The only thing that encourages him to end it all. If he can only kill himself, end it all here, he can join Sherlock in the afterlife. John can only hope that Sherlock went to heaven. If he didn't, then there would be no point to killing himself.
Who does John think he's kidding? There is a point to killing himself. To see Sherlock again, to get away from the hell and stress of this life.
If he could only have the courage...
John closes his eyes, releasing his stress. He takes a deep breath and releases it. He focuses all of his energy into the act he is about to commit. A tear escapes from his eye and his finger tightens on the trigger. He feels resistance against the trigger and he knows this is it.
He is about to kill himself. All of John's suffering can just end here if he has enough courage to just-
Pull. The. Trigger.
John takes a deep breath.
He apologizes silently to Mrs. Hudson in his mind.
He apologizes to Lestrade, Donovan, and...
Sherlock.
What would Sherlock think if he walked in at this moment and found John about to kill himself on his bed?
Just get it over with, John.
His hand is shaking and he can't help but think he's going to miss. John steadies his aim with his other hand and slowly pulls on the trigger.
I'm sorry, Sherlock, John thinks, and his world goes black.
For a brief moment, John feels a pair of arms wrap around him. He relaxes into the pair of arms.
"Sherlock...you're here..."
But in reality, it's actually Sherlock. Alive. Real. In the flat. Crying over his dead flatmate's body. Blaming himself.
"I was too late, John. I'm so sorry. I was way too late. I shouldn't have taken so long and I'm so sorry."
Sherlock wraps his arms around John and just begs him, pleads him, not to be dead.
But it's no use.
John Watson is dead.
Sherlock checks the gun.
No more bullets.
No way to follow John.
He left his own gun on the rooftop.
Three years ago.
Probably gone by now.
Sherlock places a kiss on John's soft lips, something he'd wanted to do for a very long time.
But he'd rather John be alive than dead.
He wants John back.
Just so he can tell him three words.
Just three words.
The most powerful three words ever spoken.
I.
Love.
You.