Apologies for how rough this is, promised I'd post something by midnight, only spent an hour on this, I recieved an anonymous prompt on tumblr to write a fanfic based on Iris by Goo Goo Dolls :)

And I'd give up forever to touch you
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow

For 5months after Sherlock's death, John tried to continue with his normal life. He tried to keep seeing girls, he tried to keep his job, and he tried to be happy. But nothing worked, since Sherlock had left him, nothing ever worked.

John sat there, alone as usual, in the cold darkened living room of 221b. The curtains hung limply, he couldn't remember the last time he'd opened them. He couldn't remember much. He did the same thing every day. Awoke in the afternoon, ordered groceries online. Ate toast and Jam, had a cup of tea and sat there, just sat there in silence, staring into space. Apparently it had been 2 years today since he was left alone. He only knew that due to the message machine, Lestrade had left a message, asking how he was, he ignored it, like he did everything and everyone else.

People had stopped visiting him, talking to him, making any contact with him. John liked it that way, he didn't have to fake smiling and being happy that way. He was far from happy, he was far from sad. He didn't know what he was, he felt nothing, but he felt everything, a feeling that was so overwhelming yet so empty.

Mycroft kept Johns bank balance at a steady number. Meaning John could carry on living at the flat he had once shared with his best friend. That was Mycroft's way of apologising to John, he assumed, he didn't care, he didn't forgive Mycroft, he didn't think he would ever forgive him.

That morning, it occurred to John, he hadn't been living. He'd been wasting away slowly rotting, just like Sherlock was, 6ft under. He felt 6ft under, buried, suffocating, just waiting for it to end. Two years ago, John died, his mind, his soul, his being, the only that remained was his body, but why? There was no point.

John would give everything, anything, just to feel Sherlock's touch, his gaze, his eyes probing him, trying to deduce him. He would give anything to hear his voice. He would give his life. In fact, that day, that's what John chose to do. He would never see Sherlock again, not whilst he lived, he didn't think he'd see him again if he died, but there was a small glimmer of hope, a small percentage that he might, that there was in fact, life after death.

You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
'Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight

And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

That day, John visited Sherlock's grave, for the first time in years. It was the first time in god knows how long that he had actually left the house. It felt weird, the world was loud, he felt claustrophobic, there were to many people, he felt like everyone was watching him. A thin gaunt man, with dark shadowy eyes and pale papery skin. He was old before his time. He was a haunted man. He was broken beyond repair.

There John stood, in front of Sherlock's grave, wishing it was him down there under the dirt, not Sherlock. Sherlock would have easily coped without John, he would continue to help and save and solve. John was weak, he couldn't carry on. He spoke, his throat hurt, the sound of his voice was unfamiliar, he hadn't heard it on so long. It sounded like it didn't belong to him.

"Well, here we are, this is the end. And Sherlock, I need to apologise. I'm not who you thought I was. This exciting, fun, full of energy man who was always there, helping, letting your creativity bounce and flow. I am not. I am not even the man who followed in your footsteps, if that were the case, you wouldn't be here, rotting away, whilst I waste a life that could have been yours, that deserved to have been yours. You kept me alive Sherlock, you, before you, I was empty, boring, lifeless,"

John takes a deep shaky breath.

"I am sorry, this is my fault. If I had just noticed, if I hadn't run off. I know it's not completely moral, but, if I'd stayed for you and not left for Mrs Hudson, everything would be different. I'm sorry I never told you how much you meant to me, I never got a chance, Sherlock, you meant everything, you were my life, you were life. I, I well, what I feel for you stretches so much further than the small three words I love you. I don't just love you, I need you. My best friend. "

Feeling ridiculously overwhelmed with this sudden influx of feelings Johns brought to his knees unable to stand due to the weight of his grief.

And you can't fight the tears that aren't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I have failed you. I could have saved you. But I wasn't quick enough, clever enough, I wasn't good. Not like you. Well, I guess this goodbye, officially now. I'm doing what I should have done years ago."

John slowly takes a small blade out of his pocket, he looks at it, watches it as the light dances across its smooth sharp surface. So beautiful. So dangerous. So final.

He takes the blade, rests it lightly on his wrist, then increases the pressure pulling the blade along. The warm hot blood began to leak out, slowly, and then quicker, thicker, the red cloaked his arm, his hand, dripped down onto his jeans and soaked through to the skin.

Consider continuing this.. Should I?