Note: (Trigger warning- thoughts of/attempted suicide.) Considering continuing on with this, but I am as of yet unsure. At this very moment, it exists as a oneshot. Let me know what you think, I suppose.

"I was so lost." The words came out whispered like a prayer to a harsh god or an avenging angel.

"I was so lost when you found me and then-" A gasp for air as sobs threatened to choke off his words. "…And then I got lost in you." John smiled. It was a bitter smile marred by the tears now running down his face, but a smile nonetheless. The tears mixed with the gentle rain that fell from a threateningly grey sky.

"It was better that way," he continued, knees beginning to ache from holding his weight as he kneeled on the cold ground. "I wasn't really living before then. From the moment when I thought I might die, that was it. I might as well have been dead for the way I went about my life. But then you-" he choked again. "You changed that."

He shivered against the biting chill, trying to ignore the growing aches in his joints. It didn't matter. "But then you- you left. You left me alone with nothing but this," he gestured angrily to the stone slab in front of him, to the engraving on its surface. "Nothing but a name, and a ruined one at that." He may not have believed the lies, but the rest of London and the world had decided for themselves. Fake. Liar. Con. Freak.

The former army doctor shook his head violently, sending little droplets of water flying. "You left me!" he yelled, voice hoarse and broken. "You ruined everything, took back everything you had given me!"

The anger came and was gone just as quickly, leaving him feeling empty once more. "I just want to know why. I need to know what I did wrong. Was it- was it because…" He couldn't say those words out loud. He didn't dare, not even now. How could he when they had never been spoken when Sherlock had still been there? How could he admit that he only had the courage to accept the truth once his best friend was gone? I love you. Those words made him sick. The potential future that had once been before him, that had crashed, burned, died with Sherlock was unbearable to think about.

John had been so, so very stupid. Denial and fear and the need for something in his life to just be normal- it all may have ruined what could have been the best thing in his life. It could have pushed Sherlock off of that ledge. John could remember every heated glance now. Every casual touch that had simply lingered longer than what usually went on between two people who were simply friends. Every word that seemed to hold a different weight or meaning than it should have. He remembered – although vaguely – coming home from a night at the pub, drunk out of head, and pressing a sloppy kiss to Sherlock's lips. He remembered the way the man froze, how he simply stared at John for a long moment with an unreadable expression before ushering him into bed, murmuring things like, "You're drunk, John. You need to sleep now, John." And he remembered wondering the next morning whether or not he had imagined the gentle caress, the fingers running through his hair in the dark of his room right before he passed out. Now, he knew somehow that he had not imagined it.

All of those things stood out in his mind now, sharp and vivid and utterly agonizing. "I'm not gay. He's not my date. We're just friends." Denial after denial after denial, simply because he had been afraid. Because Sherlock was cold and unaffected by anything and couldn't possibly ever feel for him, John Hamish Watson. But he saw everything in focus now that he had never been able to piece together before. Sherlock had not only felt for him. He had loved him. And maybe, maybe if John hadn't been such a stupid prick, he could have seen that. He could have saved the detective, just as Sherlock had once saved him.

It was too late for all of that. He was sobbing in earnest now, body shaking uncontrollably between the emotion that threatened to rip him open and the cold that was sinking into his bones. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "I never told you- I never told you."

And now he was alone. Jobless. Friendless. He'd be homeless if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson, and she was barely making it through without his and Sherlock's rent. His trembling hands steadied as he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his gun. He stared at it grimly for a moment, lips pressed into a tight line as he regarded the weapon with equal interest and bitterness. His gaze went back to the tombstone, to the name that was etched there. "It would only make sense for me to come here," he explained quietly, voice barely working at this point. "This, um. This is my- my note," he whispered, eyes falling to the ground once more. He raised the barrel to his head, pausing momentarily to wave it at the headstone. "You should've known. You should have figured it out, that you couldn't just leave me like that." He bit his lip, jaw quivering slightly as he put the gun back up to his temple.

John closed his eyes, and for a moment he could imagine that Sherlock would be right there waiting for him-

There was a hand on his shoulder, and someone pulling the gun from his loose grip at the same time. His eyes jerked open just as he was pulled backward, off of his knees and into a suffocating embrace. John's – savior? Attacker? – ran a hand through his hair, and he could feel their chest heaving with muffled sobs. And he relaxed, melted into the warmth of the body pressed against his, because he remembered that touch. This could only be one person. He couldn't believe it, couldn't remember actually pulling the trigger, but he must have. Because he shifted his body, turned to look into those sorrow-filled ice blue eyes weeping over him, and he knew that he couldn't still be alive. He was in Sherlock Holmes' arms, at last.