So here is a little one-shot for you all. I know I've been slacking in posting up new stuff and I apologize fully!

Any who... Just as a warning this gets pretty dark and depressing sooo...if any of you have triggers that set stuff off like that..you may want to skip this one.
Other than that, please...enjoy.

My Savior

He wasn't sure how long he had sat in bed crying, but it felt like years.

The muscles in his face and his stomach hurt. What hurt the most though, was his heart. It had felt like it had been torn out, burnt and stomped on. His chest ached, from the loneliness. The fact that he had lost his friend, his close friend, hell, his best friend.

Sherlock was his only friend really, besides Mrs. Hudson, and Greg, but he met them through Sherlock.

Oh God it hurt. Everything hurt, mentally, emotionally physically. John hardly went to work anymore. He completely stopped dating, he refused to see Greg for a pint or coffee. Text messages where a constant reminder that there was a world and a reality outside of his bedroom walls. Although, John never ventured outside those walls unless he really had too. Most of the time he stayed curled up in his bed, under a blanket crying his heart out. He refused to go down stairs in the flat, because all of Sherlock's belongings were still around.

A few months after Sherlock's death, Mrs. Hudson came in one afternoon while John was making tea in the kitchen. She started asking what she should do with Sherlock's things. If they should just pack them, sell them, or donate them. It's not like she was trying to get rid of John or the memory of Sherlock, she was trying to help with the grieving process, possibly help John move on.

There was no moving on from this, there was no help that he could see fit. He saw his therapist two or three times after the incident, but refused to go back. It wasn't helping worth a damn. She had told John that he should write more about him and Sherlock on his blog. He tried, he really did, but found that he just sat in front of his laptop like a zombie and just stared at it. Or he would start writing and break down crying. There was no way that he was going to be able to write all the things that two of them had done, the feelings that he had or has for the man. It made him physically sick just thinking about it. Pretty soon he just stopped seeing his therapist all together and just kind of gave up.

John used to go and have coffee with Greg all the time. It turned into a casual thing, but it never eased the ache in his chest. Everyone he knew or associated with, he got to know through Sherlock. Somehow though, every time he saw Greg, Molly, hell even Anderson, they would stop and talk to him. They would ask how he was doing and mention Sherlock. They would mention how much of an arse he could be but when John came around, he kind of helped straighten Sherlock out. John would just give them a tight smile and excuse himself, and go back to Baker Street and cry his heart out.

Laying in bed, he cried so hard he was almost heaving. His phone kept chirping and buzzing, he just wanted to throw the damn thing across the room. He wanted to stop the pain, block out the rest of the world. He wanted his detective back, his friend, he wanted his Sherlock back.

Sometimes, John would grab his phone, and call Sherlock's number just to hear his voice on his voice mail. Although, he quickly stopped doing that, as it torn out his heart more and more each time.

He gripped at the sheets as he coughed a little and a shudder moved through his chest. Rubbing the tears from his eyes, he sat up in bed slowly, taking deep breaths to even out his breathing.

The pain needed to stop. It needed to go away. He just wanted to get rid of the rest of the world and get his detective back. John ran a shaky hand through his short hair. He felt his stomach clench and turn, and he wrapped an arm around himself.

He couldn't remember the last time he ate, he wasn't even sure what day it was.

Last time he went to work at the hospital, Sarah came into his office to talk to him. She had asked how he was doing because, he didn't seem as lively as he used to. Of course she knew about Sherlock, but almost a year had passed and he was still mourning. John was having a hard time getting passed the grieving stage. She told him to go home that day and take a few days off to collect himself, he hadn't gone back since.

Collect myself, that's funny, bloody hilarious. John thought as he held his head in his hands. The phone on his night stand chirped again. Glancing down at it, John rolled his eyes seeing it was from Greg. He hasn't talked to anyone in months, hadn't wanted to either.

He absently licked his lips, tasting the salt from his tears, and picked up his head. He glanced at his desk across the room and just stared for a moment. John stared at the top left drawer knowing what was in it. He licked his lips again knowing his Sig Sauer was in there.

Tentatively he stood up and walked across the room to his desk. His finger tips ran across the handle of the drawer as his mind slowed and thought about almost nothing. He stopped and thought about the relief that he would have. There would be no more pain, no one harassing him any more and no more loneliness.

The feel of the handle felt almost welcoming under his finger tips, and he slowly pulled the drawer open. He pulled his gun out, and loaded in a clip. He ran his fingers along the cool metal and chewed his lip.

He felt his heart starting to race at the thought of the barrel in his mouth. The idea of the cool metal pressing against his tongue, with the taste of gun oil in his mouth. He let out a slow even breath as he held the gun in his hand.

He had thought about it several times, but didn't get this far. John never thought he would let it get this far, but the ache in his heart was unbearable.

He sat on the end of his bed, holding the gun in his hands, staring down at wondering, Maybe I should leave a note. Mrs. Hudson is bound to find me. God it would break her heart. So, maybe I should just write a note.

John glanced at his desk seeing a note pad and pen sitting on top, but decided against it. Tears started burning his eyes, but quickly wiped them away. He bit his lip and started a slow sob, mumbling, "Why the fuck did you have to be so selfish. You took yourself away from me. I was so alone before I met you, and now I'm more alone than I have ever been."

Shuddering slightly, and tears streaming down his face, he cocked the gun and slipped the barrel between his lips.

He let out a sharp breath feeling the heavy metal settle against his tongue and the taste of the gun oil. His finger gently traced along the trigger for a second as he closed his eyes, and all he could see or think about was that mad man, Sherlock.

As tears streamed down his face, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and squeezed the trigger.

John flinched as he heard the click but the gun didn't go off.

John opened his eyes and his, hands shaking he took the gun from his mouth and stared down at it slightly shocked. His gun never jammed, ever, he cleaned it almost religiously. It just, didn't happen.

He stood and took his gun to the desk and just stared for a moment. Licking his lips, he could still taste the metal and the gun oil. Remembering his training for clearing a jam, he tapped the clip, cocked his gun again and slid the barrel back into his mouth.

He let out a slow breath as his finger caressed the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut, and prepared to squeeze the trigger.

Then his bedroom door flew open.

"John...what...what are you doing," the voice to his left asked.

Great, I'm hallucinating now, he though. The voice in his room sounded just like Sherlock's, but he had been dead for two years. He let out a small whimper as he began to pull the trigger back, but it was violently pulled from his mouth and his hand.

"John! What in the bloody hell are you doing?!"

John's head snapped to the left and looked up to see the tall, dark-haired man that he had missed so dearly. His eyes grew wide as he stared up at Sherlock and stammered, "You...you're dead...I..I saw you fall. I swear to God I saw you fall, I watched you die!"

But there the man stood, clear as day, not a scratch on him. "God, I must be dead, the gun jam didn't really happen and I'm dead." John muttered quietly and began to sob.

Sherlock quickly got on his knees beside where John was sitting and gently cupped his face, "No. No John. You're not dead. I'm here, this is real. This is very real. What were you thinking John? Why did you have your gun in your mouth John? You were going to kill yourself."

John really couldn't believe it, he was alive. Sherlock Holmes was alive and kneeling in front of him. He was still a little shocked, and slowly shook his head. "Oh God, Sherlock, I just, I couldn't take it anymore. I just wanted it over. I wanted the pain to go away. I am so tired of hurting, and crying all the time, and this empty feeling in my chest."

John rested his face in one of Sherlock's hands, and cried again, "I just wanted it over, I just wanted it done. I was so tired of hurting and being alone all the time. I couldn't take it anymore." he mumbled.

Sherlock frowned as a few tears streaked his cheeks, and pulled John into a tight hug. John buried his face into the detective's neck remembering his scent, and leaned into him.

Nuzzling his hair, Sherlock murmured softly, "Don't worry, I'm here John. I'm here. I'm never going to leave you again. Ever. You never have to worry about hurting or being alone again."

Well then. I hope I didn't break your hearts or make you hate me. God... I felt nauseous writing this, but I felt that it had to be done! Reviews would be lovely!