John fell onto his knees in front of the grave. He hugged the black marble tightly.
"Other people move on so quickly," he choked out between sobs. "Why can't I? I haven't been here or the flat in a long while, but I still feel so sad. I can't take it anymore, Sherlock. I just can't." He let out a shaky sigh.
"I've tried to do it, you know. More than once. But I just can't. I look in the mirror, the gun pressed to my head, but when I'm about to pull the trigger, I think, 'No, Sherlock wouldn't be proud of me. He would hate that I did this just for selfish reasons.' It's quite maddening. I just wish I could see you again…"
He shut his eyes tightly. "I can't get over you, no matter what they say…"