He jerks up in a cold sweat. Again, another nightmare. In the last three years he hasn't had one night of restful sleep. Yet, he doesn't take the pills the doctor gave him, because it's the only time he gets to see his friends face. Even if that means replaying his death over and over again.
After lying awake for hours, John gets out of bed to get breakfast, some bitter, black coffee and an apple, both which are left untouched. He paces the floor, acting like he is trying to decide something, when in reality, he already has months ago.
John quickly packed up his laptop and threw on his coat over his jumper. He then gently lifted his scarf off the coat rack and pats the skull goodbye. He then headed off to the cemetery.
He had rushed almost the whole way there. He hadn't gotten a taxi. He never had really trusted cabbies after the study in pink, and didn't have enough money anyway. That's why he didn't live in flat 221B Baker Street anymore either. He just couldn't afford it. It was filled with too many memories anyway.
Once he reached the headstone, he slowed, and then finally stopped and knelt down to touch the smooth surface. A tear fell down. "Won't be long." He said. Weather it was to the headstone or himself, no one really knew. Perhaps both.
Thirty minutes later, John was walking towards a hospital building. he makes sure he avoids stepping on the stain of blood on the sidewalk, and enters the building. He walks with confidence, and few question him and why he was there. Others he just showed them a card that was "borrowed" and never returned.
Alone on the roof, John walks over to the edge and looks down. He wondered if it was like flying, how it felt when you rushed through the air. If it hurt when you hit the pavement. Did you go through pain? Or did you die immediately? He took a deep breath...