It was such a long time. Too, too long. Two years had passed already.

It was never in his intention, never had he imagined, that he would fall in love with his best friend. Not only that but to have his feelings reciprocated. What started of as being accidental - was it? - flatmates to full on lovers was not really your everyday love story. Nor was the fact that your lover would commit suicide in front of you. Nope. That's not normal. But then when was anything normal when you're involved with Sherlock Holmes?

John sat on his usual armchair back at 221B. He might've told Mrs. Hudson that he couldn't go back here yet, but spending a year at Harry's place was enough to drive him back to this flat. He was never able to let go of it anyway, still paying the rent even if no one lives there anymore, just for the sake of keeping their things there. That was the problem with him. He can't let go.

His hands were interlaced over his chest as he stared at the armchair in front of him. It was still fresh, vivid - the memories that is. The way Sherlock's voice somehow quivered when he was talking to him, to the time he jumped, to the smell of the blood on the cold pavement and to the hands that were holding him back.

The pain in his chest continued to grow from that day on. When he saw the lifeless eyes when they turned the detective over and then that year that he stayed over Harry, he felt the pain intensify and then to a dull numb feeling. Now... now he wanted out.

The blonde man stood up, going over to the kitchen, opening the cupboard but not taking anything from it, he then proceeded to open the fridge, walk around the living room, to his room upstairs and then down to Sherlock's room. Their room.

He kept it the way it was, not that there were a lot of things in it, no. The same mess of papers and books were still there, closet still filled with clothes, shirts and coats, drawers and nightstands still filled with other trinkets that the detective had kept over their stay there. They fixed the bed though. And threw out the experiments and kept Sherlock's science equipments in a box upstairs. That's it. Nothing changed, it's as if they still live there and yet there's no one.

With that he went back out to the living room and then to Sherlock's armchair. Fingers running through the soft leather, worn out and abused by it's previous owner. He then moved towards the fireplace, staring at the skull and then to the cluedo board that was still stabbed there. Turning he stared at the window where Sherlock's violin was leaning on and the stand for his music scores stood.

John felt a pang at his chest as he looked at the instrument with both love and hurt at the same time. He remembers the times when the detective would play it in order to show his emotions which he can't exactly communicate through words. And John always understood. He always did. That's why it hurts more to see it just there, being wasted away.

Turning around again he faced the mirror. Taking in his appearance. Really, really taking in, for the first time in almost two years. His eyes were sunken, skin gray, his hair a mess. When was the last time he went out with his friends? Ate a proper meal? Pampered himself a bit? When? No. None. Ever since Sherlock died everything was out of the routine he had with the detective and ever since then he was not able to pick himself up. Too busy grieving, too busy having regrets that he forgot to live.

Sitting down he placed his head in his hands and sighed. He can't live this way anymore. He loves Sherlock, he really does, but if this continues on God knows what's going to happen to him. He rubbed his face, taking a deep breath and staring outside. He needs to visit his grave.

Standing in front of the smooth marble that was Sherlock's headstone, John took a deep breath and stared at it for some time. This was it. He just has to let it out. Just like that time two years ago.

But then the pain didn't go away at all, did it?

And it was so much harder this time. It felt as if he was being suffocated. Some kind of invisible hands choking him, stopping him from saying the words so he could move on. Live his life the way he wanted it to be... or before. Yet there's no more before, no more action, no adrenaline rush, no cases, no Sherlock. That's the bitter truth to all of this.

Taking in a breath he stood straighter, cleared his throat and stared at the grave.

"Sherl..." He wanted to start but his breath was caught in his throat and he could feel his eyes tearing up. But he has to do this. He has to. "Sherlock. I thought before that there was some way that, no, you are not dead, but two years passed and there's still no phone call, no text, god, even letters. So I guess you're really... six feet under. And... and I want to tell you that what you made me go through is hard. Very hard that I'm not exactly living anymore." He took a breath, his hands were clammy now and his eyes moist.

"I just wanted to say - at least to give me some sort of closure. That I have to m-move on now... I have to..." he gasped, fingers pressing over his eyes to fight the tears that were threatening to fall. "I have to let go of you now. Oh God..." John drew in a shaky breath, his emotions nearly overpowering him and no, he doesn't want to have an emotional breakdown here. "N-never. Ever. Doubt that I love you Sherlock. I still do. But I just... I really need to move on. I can't keep on holding on to you forever."

Rubbing his eyes with his sleeves, John touched his index and middle finger to his lips and then to the headstone.

"Goodbye Sherlock."

A/N: Hello. This is the first time I ever attempted to write for this fandom and in all honesty I am terrified. First of all John is more or less OOC and it's just a bit frustrating but I hope I'll get better soon. Thank you for reading and please do leave reviews!

Inspired by Adele's "First Love"