John was tired. He was always tired lately, ever since Sherlock had… gone. There was nothing for him, no one left. He struggled through his days, but barely. The pain seemed to worsen with each passing breath and he couldn't eat much anymore.
Ms. Hudson was concerned about him, Lestrade was concerned about him, Molly was concerned about him- everyone was concerned about him, just checking in, calling to see if he was all right at least once a day. He was getting sick of it… of everything.
Every breath hurt when he registered the absence of his dearest friend in the room, everything went fuzzy when he walked past a bit of crime tape and thought of him. Nothing could console him except obsessively going through Sherlock's things. Occasionally he was lucky and would find a piece of paper with his writing on it, alternately bringing him into a joyous stupor and making his heart ache so much he repeatedly almost called the hospital.
John finally couldn't take it anymore. He had the wall with the yellow spray paint wallpapered over, all of Sherlock's junk removed, even the couch where Sherlock would always sit and think had to go.
But he kept it. He knew he shouldn't, wouldn't be able to deal with the pain of seeing his things around everywhere, but he couldn't just throw them away, like Donovan and Anderson did with- no. It was dangerous for him to think of that, of them. Every time a stray word or bit of conversation reminded him of them, his fingers itched for the revolver he had upstairs under his bed.
Every hour was unbearable torture. Dark thought kept clouding John's mind, of the end, if he would see Sherlock again. Claire wanted him to come in for sessions, but he would always skip, unable to do what she wanted and open up about his feelings towards Sherlock. He slowly retreated deeper and deeper into himself, closing off from the rest of the world.
There were days, weeks when he wouldn't leave his flat, when Lestrade had to break the door down and force feed him just to keep him alive, prying John out of the kitchen or on the bed, where he rolled up in a ball to protect himself. Lestrade never knew why he did that. To him, it was obvious that all the demons and things that could hurt him were on the inside of his mind, and buried in a grave with a simple black tombstone.
John didn't know what to do. He felt confused all the time, faded, barely there. He worried he was going mad- looking up and seeing flashes of curly dark hair, the tip of a scarf disappearing around the door frame, but when he chased after them all he could see was his plain, empty flat, devoid of anything of interest or intrigue. Whenever these flashes happened, he was uncontrollable for hours afterwards, breaking things and screaming in the night. Life held nothing for him, and more and more John felt his thoughts straying into a dark area of his mind… a place where he resisted going to less and less the longer he had to live this horrible, empty, boring life. His leg was hurting again, but he no longer left the flat, so he barely noticed it. Ms. Hudson would knock on the door occasionally, flinching when something would smash against it, but persevering, leaving a tray outside John's door and washing the laundry that seemed to be the same things over and over- scarves, lots and lots of scarves, three of Sherlock's old shirts, and the outfit John wore when he first me Sherlock. John himself didn't know how he remembered what he wore on that life-changing day, but he was remembering more and more random things about Sherlock while everything else was simply fading and blurring away. He didn't even notice it when Lestrade came in anymore, but his body automatically did its own thing now, using the washroom, turning the lights on and off, looking in the fridge to see what Ms. Hudson had left there when he was asleep and robotically staring at the wall that used to have a smile on it for hours at a time.
It had been four moths since the day Sherlock had died. John could barely even think that phrase, and would punish himself for even imagining that Sherlock might walk through the door, a mad gleam in his eyes and his perfect, straight mouth quirked up into a smirk. John sat in his apartment alone, not bothering to open his eyes. What use was it? It expended energy needlessly and erased the image of Sherlock in his mind. Better to remain blind. Better to stay inside his own head, where Sherlock was always a constant presence, never leaving or growing fainter.
John suddenly opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep, an odd occurrence of late. He normally didn't feel the need, preferring instead to read through his blog over and over, obsessively, looking past to Sherlock and his adventures and feeling numbness and pain alternatively creep though his heart.
This night, he had dreamt about Sherlock. He always dreamed about Sherlock, but this was different. Normally his mind was kind to him, showing him Sherlock smiling, handing him a cup of awful coffee and looking so pleased when he forced it down, but tonight… he broke down, his body erupting into sobs and muted screams of tortured agony. He was on the roof of saint B's hospital, watching Sherlock as a tear ran down his cheek. Sherlock looked around, saw john behind him, and reached out for him. Slowly, his hand drew closer, almost touching his face, but then- he was gone. John, unfrozen, rushed to the edge, looking down to see his friend, his companion, his love broken and bleeding on the sidewalk. Again and again it happened in his mind, never stopping, repeating in an endless loop, John unable to say goodbye as his heart died over and over.
Slowly, he sat up, his decision made. He went over to his bedside drawer, where he always kept his gun, just in case of… he didn't even know or care anymore. Slowly, he got up, putting on his slippers, opening the bedroom door and walking down the hall. He got to the living room and saw Sherlock's couch, replaced because he could almost imagine him sitting in it and laughing at some homicide or other, and sat down. Slowly he drew the gun out of his dressing gown pocket and put a bullet in it.
He put the gun in his mouth, tasting the acrid tag of metal and immediately removing it with a sudden pang. He looked at it, considering: was it worth it? To stay alive, remember Sherlock every waking hour with a new wave of unimaginable pain? Or should he end it here, and maybe- if therewas a god- see Sherlock again when it was all over? It was an easy choice. He slowly put the gun to his breast and, heart beating slowly and calmly, wanting to halt this never-ending sorrow as well, and fired.
There was nothing but pain. The flashing lights, Lestrade's blurry face, Ms. Hudson's tears hot against his skin- he finally succumbed. There was a pause, when everything was silent, when the sirens halted for a single millisecond, and everyone held their breath. Then, John Watson closed his eyes and left this world forever.
Lestrade closed his eyes and stepped back. Ms. Hudson started wailing, and everyone in the vicinity stopped what they were doing. Lestrade slowly pulled a blanket over John's face, covering his vaguely hurt expression, and the body that used to be john Watson left in a now silent ambulance.
At the hospital, they examined him, but found no foul play, just his own deed.
Lestrade died a little. Both of them, leaving and abandoning him… he had a life, he could get over it eventually, but the pain would never leave him. He could only imagine what it must have been like for John. He looked into the cold, sanitary room, at the thing covered with a blanket on the table, and closed his eyes. He heard the door open and familiar footsteps walk in, footsteps he though he would never hear again, and an impossible voice permeated his mind.
"What happened? I just came back- I mean- I went to the flat, but- everything gone- what's happened? Is Ms. Hudson all right?" Sherlock's voice was filled with one thing that had never been in it before. Confusion. Through all he'd been through tonight, Lestrade took it amazingly calmly, and even wondered a bit at how someone who was so brilliant could at the same time be so damn stupid.
Shocked, hurt, and now angry beyond belief, he turned and stared at Sherlock. His face was gaunt, haggard, and worn- he looked as if he had aged 10 years, not seven months. Lestrade honestly didn't care. "Ms. Hudson is fine," he managed to choke out.
"Oh thank god. I assume it's just another murder or something that brings all of you here in such a commotion tonight- no, by the horror on your face and shakiness of your hands it was a suicide- a particularly bad one. Now, where's John? I need to see him." Sherlock stopped and stared expectantly at him, awaiting an answer. The only one he got was Lestrade's turning, trembling, back to the blanket-covered lump in the room. Sherlock's face slowly turned even paler, and his eyes widened. He mouthed the word no; over and over again on the impossible chance the life would return to John's body, the light to his eyes, that this was all a cruel trick.
His knees gave out, and Lestrade didn't catch him. He leaned against the cold glass and felt his heart being ripped into shreds. "It… was… suicide?" he managed to choke out, his eyes never leaving the still form of the man he had befriended and loved. He simply couldn't grasp the sheer concept of horror, his body going numb with shock. He had come back all this way, to find… this. It just couldn't happen.
He got up, facing Lestrade's stony expression, and walked out of the room. He slowly, carefully, climbed up the stairs to the rooftop and sat, staring at the stars from a hopeless world where all the love was drained and dried up. His heart couldn't function, falling into pieces in his chest, and closed his eyes against the horror of life. He slowly got up, opened his eyes, and walked to the edge. Looking down, he imagined all the memories of John, that word, "brilliant!" John would always use to describe him. How it always annoyed him, but how he would give anything to hear it now one more time, but knowing it was impossible. He looked over, knowing in his mind full well the event that sent John over the edge, and-knowing there was nothing left for him- went over his edge as well.
The fall seemed to last an hour, a lifetime, an eon, but it ended in a second.
Sherlock Holmes's blank eyes stared up the dead stars, seeing nothing, and blood seeped out of his fractured head. That brain, once so brilliant, now had no thoughts left in it, and Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, did as his one true love had done hours before and passed into darkness.