Warning (and spoilers): If you are prone to depression, or have suicidal tendencies, get help. And you probably shouldn't read this.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC, I'm pretty sure. In either case, it doesn't belong to me.
He couldn't bear to look at it anymore, couldn't return ever again. He couldn't dare. Because, you see, if he left it alone, he might still be able to imagine Sherlock pouting on the couch, or sitting at the table drinking tea, or standing at his usual perch by the window with his violin in hand. He had paid Mrs. Hudson to keep it locked up, untouched. He believed that, if it were ever changed in the slightest, that it would be giving up. It would mean admitting that Sherlock would never come back, wouldn't need his experiments or chairs or bed or window. And he could never admit that.
It was exactly one year later when John returned to the flat.
He didn't know why. Perhaps it had been, at first, with some slight hope that the great magician really had pulled off one of his tricks this time, that when he opened the door, Sherlock would be sitting in his chair, or lounging on the couch, his fingers steepled and his long, lanky body splayed out recklessly across it. The door creaked when he opened it, grumbling after such misuse. He stepped inside. Everything was covered in a layer of dust; Mrs. Hudson had kept to his wishes and had not laid a foot inside. Neither had anyone else, he was sure.
"Dust is eloquent."
Startled, John turned, but all that was there was the ringing in his ears. He turned back, staring at everything with weary eyes. He stepped forwards, the thick grey powder catching at his trouser cuffs. The gentle tap of his cane was the only sound in the room. Wandering around, he slowly moved from one part of the house to another. There, in the kitchen, the smell of a wide variety of long-stagnant experiments lay where they had last been conducted. True, the body parts and other volatile materials had been removed, but otherwise, it was as if Sherlock had just stepped out to go chase something. John's bad leg ached for the olden days, where he could run behind that marvelous man, never further than a few steps behind, as if there were an invisible tether linking the two of them. Moving on, he wandered down the hall and peeked at their old bedrooms, then walked back to the living room. Sighing, he sat heavily down on a chair, still leaning on his cane. He breathed, then coughed violently, the dust racking his lungs. He leaned back, sinking into the cushion of the chair. He sat there for what could have been a lifetime, replaying in his head every conversation and every moment he had ever had with Sherlock, from the beginning to the end, every time he had been euphorically dashing about or just sitting quietly with Sherlock, to every word he had yelled at him, every time he had ever felt angry at his wonderful madman for anything. Everything he wished he had said, and everything he wished he had not said.
John stood slowly, pushing himself out of the chair. His breath caught, and he realized that he had been crying, his face wet with tears. He had thought that he had run out of tears a long time ago, that once he had been emptied, he was hollowed out for good. But he was an old soldier, so he wiped his eyes and set his jaw in the way that he was so used to doing. He walked steadily back to Sherlock's bedroom, and pulled open the drawer on the nightstand. There was a journal there, probably Sherlock's. Though he believed it may be disrespect, there was no time for secrets now. He opened it up with shaking hands, and a note fluttered to the ground.
"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
John had to focus to steady his breathing as he read through the note. It was scrawled in Sherlock's reckless hand, and John could barely keep his eyes clear enough to see what it said.
My dearest John,
If you are reading this I most certainly am dead. Don't worry about me, though. Go on with your life, you have so much more to do than dash about with a madman all day. You will find that I have quite a lot of money stored away, this will go to you, so you don't have to worry about getting another flatmate. Unless you want one, of course. But I suppose what I'm getting at is, do take care of yourself, John Watson. Do that for me. Because if you were gone, I wouldn't have anything left in this world. John, I told you once that I didn't have friends. I don't know if you remember that, but do you remember what I said to you afterwards? I only have one, and that's you. I'm sorry if I'm repeating myself, I'm not used to having quite such…painful emotions. So take care, my dearest friend, my dearest Doctor John Watson.
Love,
SH
John could not stop himself from reaching back into the drawer. He found himself being very much like Sherlock, cursing himself for having emotions. The pain inside him was back in full force now, the only thing that had ever stopped it was his adventures with Sherlock, and now that those were over, it was much like a dam breaking open. His insides felt cracked in two. His hand in the drawer of the nightstand, he pulled out another object, the entire reason he had come back to the bedroom in the first place. He was sorry only for the fact that the sheets would be messed, and for poor Mrs. Hudson. But this was no time for regrets.
If Sherlock would not come back to him, he was going to go to Sherlock.
He held the cold barrel to his temple with a steady hand. With images of Sherlock still running through his mind, he clicked the safety off of the small black handgun.
He did not close his eyes when he pulled the trigger.