So I posted this earlier on tumblr myartpalace but I figured I'd upload it on here too because why not.
(Keep in mind this is my first actual attempt at writing something for Sherlock haha)
It was on the three-year anniversary of his best friend's death when John sat alone in his room, the only source of light the silver glow of the moon, protruding through the partially covered window.
He sighed, staring at the fringed blue scarf that sat limply on his lap. The bloodstains had been long since scrubbed out, but John could still picture them, the dark red splotches staining the blue, and a vision of Sherlock's lifeless body stabbed his mind.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching, and held in a sob. A million memories of Sherlock Holmes raced through his mind at once, the pain cutting through him like a bullet.
"But that was ages ago! Why would she still be upset?"
It had been exactly one-thousand, ninety-five days since Sherlock had jumped. Why was John still upset? Surely it was fine to still feel a bit saddened, but to have his dreams plagued with his friend's bloody body every single night?
John had tried hard to move on, and his closest friends could confirm that. He had gone back to work at the surgery. He had made more friends, visited them more often. John even had a new girlfriend, Mary.
But all of it hadn't been enough to drive the consulting detective out of his thoughts.
John wanted to scream at Sherlock, to punch him, to repeatedly curse him for making him feel every single ounce of pain, regret, and sorrow he'd experienced within the past three years. But most of all, he wanted to wake up to the melody of a violin, to walk in to the kitchen cluttered with a new experiment, to hear the deep voice inquire innocently, "Oh, John, did I wake you?" with a smirk.
John took a deep breath. The scarf was on the ground - had he thrown it?
Slowly, quietly, and half in a trance, John slid open the drawer to the brown polished nightstand that stood next to his bed.
It took a bit of digging to get to it - piles of papers, notes, photos lay in his way - but finally, John grasped it.
He pulled out his pistol, running his fingers along the cold metal surface of the gun. Cold like Sherlock's dead body, he thought.
It had been a long time since John had used his pistol. It had only been used in certain circumstances; usually when he and Sherlock were hunting down a murderer or solving a crime.
He had used it to shoot the cabbie threatening Sherlock so long ago, and to threaten the huge Golem into releasing Sherlock from his grasp, to shoot at the hound that hadn't been a hound in Baskerville.
It had been on him while he and Sherlock were escaping the police just days before Sherlock's death, and afterwards, he had neatly stored the gun away, bent on never picking it up again.
But here he was, holding the pistol in his hands. Every tormenting thought of Sherlock had vanished, leaving one question.
Can I live like this much longer?
Even though they were his friends, when John thought of Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and all of the others, he felt nothing but a hollow emptiness in his chest. Then there was Mary - could he really do this to her?
John shook his head. He was fully aware of how awful a boyfriend he had been, with the nightmares and drinking and distractions.
Mary will find someone better.
John closed his eyes, the gun slowly rising up, until he felt it rest on his temple.
"I can't do this without you." He whispered, and pulled the trigger.
Right before the loud bang filled all of Baker Street, John heard a voice.
An oh-so-familiar voice. One that he hadn't heard in three years.
"JOHN!"