It's storming.
The rain rushes down the windows, little streams running down the glass. A man sits in a plush red armchair.
His name is Dr. John Watson. He's waiting, though he doesn't know for what. Perhaps it is for life to get interesting once more; maybe it's for color to return to life. Maybe…Maybe it's for a dark haired man to walk through his door.
But that man can never come back.
The memories rush into him with an exploding force. Mrs. Hudson's been shot. Sherlock refuses to come. It turns out, she had never been shot in the first place. Rushing back to the hospital. Sherlock on the roof. A phone call. Fake, fake, fake. It's his note—note, what note?—He's sorry.
Jumping, Falling, a dive more elegant than a professional swimmer onto the paved concrete.
Dead, Dead. Sherlock's dead. No pulse. No miracles. No Sherlock.
In anguish, John clutches his head, vainly hoping the memories would go away.
"You're a machine!"
All the stupid things he said to the one that mattered most... He wished so much that he could change them, say that the things that he always thought but never said. All the important things.
He takes a swig of whiskey, knowing that it would take him blissfully into a place of nothingness. Again, again, again. Get rid of the memories, get rid of the dreams, the mindless hopes. Get rid of the phantom thoughts, Sherlock's voice in the back of John's mind, like Sherlock never really left him.
Like Sherlock didn't jump.
Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…it was maddening. The thoughts never left, and the little alcohol he had hardly attempted to take them away. His eyes turn to his desk. He knows what's inside, he put it there himself. He knows it would take everything away, and he'd be with Sherlock again.
Yet he resists for another moment, tries to not think of it, sitting innocently inside his desk drawer. He glances around a room, trying to find something, anything distract him. His eyes rest on a violin, and that does him in. Sad and sorrowful it stares back, telling him to do it, then and there. He turns his eyes back on the desk, mustering up the courage, and finally walking to it. His hands that constantly shook stopped a moment after he reached the piece of furniture, and his eyes closed. His precise hands opened the drawer, and it stared back.
The gun, jet black tempting him.
John Watson was never the man who thought that he would fall to temptation, but yet he did, his fist closing around the handle of it. He passed the point of no return, no going back. He raised it, checking off the safety. Quietly, he raised the gun more, pressing the tip into his mouth. His lips parted, allowing it in. His finger touched the trigger. Don't worry Sherlock, I'll be there soon. I love you. He thought, before his forefinger pushed. A bang erupted through the silence.
All was quiet.