It had been one year, four months and twelve days since Sherlock Holmes leapt to his death off of the edge of Saint Bart's hospital. One year, four months and twelve days since John Watson felt his heart stop and shatter on the sidewalk along side with every bone in Sherlock's body. In that time John could not find the strength to soldier on. Life had ceased to hold meaning; the sun rose and sank again into dismal darkness where the stars were mere pin pricks of light that fought not to be swallowed into the black nothingness. The seasons in turn changed and progressed and yet John felt a constant winter, cold, bleak, nothing. The only thing John noticed in life was pain, it was constant and gnawing and it greedily swallowed away every ounce of happiness inside of his soul.
Everyone was worried for him, he had stopped keeping his face smooth and hairless and instead most days he had stubble on his chin and whiskey on his breath. John naturally pushed them each away a little at a time; he no longer answered the phone when Greg called. Mrs. Hudson was harder to shake, she would call and leave messages that sounded like a frazzled and distraught mother; John never listened to them the entire way through and deleted them. He did not want to heal, he did not want to mourn with friends, and he did not want to move on. Human error, sentiment, weakness these were all accurate descriptions of the love he felt for Sherlock who was never going to come back to him.
The army pension he had was paying for the dingy flat he moved to, abandoning 221B, unable to face the memory of the greatest man he had ever and would ever know. John had abandoned also his practice at the surgery; no one wanted a doctor that was drunk or hung-over, sometimes all at once. Once Sherlock was gone John had discovered what Harry enjoyed so much about the drink, it was numbness, it was solace and when he drank enough the agony he felt was muted into muddled but quiet nothing.
One year, four months and twelve days of pretending to be alive and pretending that he had survived Sherlock's suicide. In truth he was a shell, a walking talking and breathing shell and it was a depth of hell he was certain that was only meant for the most reprehensible people but there he was stuck in it.
It was nearly three in the morning when John had finished the bottle of cheap whiskey that he had only bought earlier in that night. His tolerance had been drastically increased and the pint of amber liquid was enough to put him in a stupor but no longer enough to numb him. With a great sigh he dropped the empty bottle to the floor beside his chair, swirling what was left in his glass before downing it in one gulp. Pushing himself up from his seat, stumbling only slightly as he went to the fridge and found a beer, opening it gratefully. Leaning against the counter as he let the cold bubbles sting the back of his throat, drinking too quickly again.
In the time that had passed since Sherlock's death John had come to the realization that he had found and lost not only his best friend but his soul mate. That was the only term that was fitting. Sherlock would have scoffed at the term but John knew it was an accurate usage of the word but his soul had been fractured beyond repair. Sherlock may as well have pushed John Watson from the ledge that day; it would have been less damaging.
When he finished the beer he began to sob, muffled into his hand. Slinking his body down to the floor and resting his back against the wall and shaking his head to himself. Why was he still fighting this fight? Why was he still trying to endure? There was nothing for him, no one he was close to anymore, no one he wanted to become close with. Why was he drowning his sorrows in bottles that he always found nothing at the bottom of? John found himself cursing his dead friend's name, his love often turning to hot vile hatred in his mouth. How could Sherlock do this to him? How could he step off of that ledge, leave John with his finale words to eat at his brain and cut into his heart?
John stood after several minutes and moved to his bedroom. He had enough, this unwavering misery that had engulfed every second of his life since he saw the side walk painted crimson with Sherlock's blood. When John had staggered into his bedroom he went into his closet, finding the gun safe buried behind a box of things Mrs. Hudson had given him from the flat that had once belonged to Sherlock.
John fumbled with the combination, the whiskey dulling his memory and it had been awhile since he had a reason to use the weapon. Finally opening the safe, pulling out the gun and a fresh clip before going to his desk and laying the weapon on the hardwood. He opened his laptop, the light glaringly bright and making him squint as he pulled his blog open. Staring blankly at the screen for several moments as he tried to find the words that he wanted to write, he was leaving a note "..that's what people do.." He heard Sherlock's voice say in the back of his mind. Bringing his fingers to the keys, the words would not come to him. Finally his fingers were stroking the keys as his heart spoke, releasing the only words that mattered in that moment.
This is the living will and testament of John Hamish Watson; I leave everything to my sister Harriet Watson.
Sherlock Holmes was the bravest and wisest man I ever had the privilege to know and I loved him until the day I died.
John posted these words on his blog and closed the laptop once more, turning his attention to the gun. This hurt too much, he felt too much with every breath and no one and nothing could make this hurt go away. Captain John Watson was giving up, he was surrendering and it was satisfying in some small way to know that he would not have to continue to battle on tomorrow. Loading in the cartridge of bullets and releasing a heavy sob before lifting the gun to his temple. The metal that was familiar in his hand felt heavier somehow, his hand trembling as he turned to look out his window seeing only faint headlamps from the cars on the street passing by unwitting to what was about to happen inside of the building they drove by.
John inhaled as he cemented his decision, it would be fast and he would be with Sherlock once again if heaven was more than a beautiful lie. He felt his finger twitch against the trigger, just enough pressure to help coax the bullet from the gun and let it spiral down the muzzle. There was a spark, a bang and then there was nothing, no more pain, no more longing, no more John Watson.