John got out of bed. Well, Sherlock's bed. He'd been sleeping there ever since The Fall. It's been exactly three years since, John noted to himself. It was a Saturday, so he didn't have to go to work. He always felt like an empty shell, just a void where his soul used to be. He was so alive before, that anything in comparison is just nothing. Today is the day, John thought to himself. He had allowed himself three years. Three years to hope, to mourn, to finish. Today, John is going to Sherlock's grave and kill himself. He gets his clothes on, and goes to make some tea. He looked around as the kettle was heating. Everything, everything reminded him of Sherlock. Memories flashed across the wall: The time he shot a cabbie (he was always hesitant to use a cab now), the time they met Irene Adler, the time they met Moriarty… it all played like a movie in John's head. A movie that's ending soon, John thought. John had tried to dating again, to fill the void. No use. He tried drugs. No use. He even tried cutting himself. No use. John was a shadow, drifting through space, not belonging to anyone or anything. Mrs. Hudson tried to help as best she could, and John appreciated it, but it was no use. He was trying his best to move on. It was impossible. It's time, he thought. He got a pen and paper, to write his note.
Dear concerned,
When Sherlock died, I told myself that I had three more years on earth. Three years to hope, to mourn, to finish. I'm done now. I will be found next to Sherlock's grave. I wish to be buried next to him. I'm sorry. I just couldn't do it anymore.
John H. Watson
John left the note on the table, grabbed his shotgun, and left for the cemetery.