When John wakes in the morning, he calls in sick, grabs a bottle of scotch, and watches the video.

Save John Watson.

John turns off the telly and digs his fists into his thigh.

Shit. This was shit. It was all utter shit. Sherlock almost died again to save John. And John never showed up. Mary was wrong about him. He wasn't there. He didn't save his friend. He stayed at home in self pity as Sherlock Holmes almost died . He would never be the man Mary thought he was. He cheated on her. He let her go and get shot instead of him. She died and Sherlock almost died and now all he could do was sit there and wonder why was it that everyone I ever- They all try to leave me.

He drops Rosie off at the sitters, goes back home, grabs his bike, and rides around with no clear destination, just trying to clear his head.

This becomes a common thing over the next few days. When guilt and grief start crawling up John's spine, he calls a sitter and he rides his bike for hours on end.

One day, he realizes he's passed Baker street multiple times without even thinking about it. He wonders if Sherlock ever looked out his window and saw him. The thought makes his chest tighten.

John has thought about coming to see him, of course he had, there's a reason he keeps biking after all. He can't stop thinking. He can't stop thinking about the video, about what Greg said, about that madman in that flat going through withdrawal and probably dying of boredom. Something keeps pulling John back here, back to 221B.

The letter.

The letter has been sitting on the coffee table unread for a week now. Of course John can't stop thinking about him, there's something of his right there where John sees it multiple times a day. It haunts him.

Maybe if John read the letter, he would be able to throw it away without guilt and move on.

He goes back home.

John prepares a glass of scotch once more and snatches the letter off the table.

Here we go. Let's see how he talks his way out of his shit this time.

It stings.

It stings and it burns and his eyes are fire and it's spreading around his entire head and it stings. His chest is heavy, too heavy for his lungs to expand.

He punches his fist into the wall.

You should stay away from me.

He punches again.

I killed your wife.

Again.

You were my best friend. Were.

Again.

I could not bare the thought of never returning to our flat again, of never seeing you again, John.

It stings. He wipes his bloodied fists on his jumper.

Tortured.

He slams his head against the wall.

The decisions I made, the things I endured, were for you.

He kicks and kicks and kicks.

You are the bravest, wisest, most human human-being I have ever known.

He swears.

I did briefly consider returning to old habits. Suicide, even.

He shakes.

I love you.

He weeps.

For the first time in years, John Watson allows himself to weep.

He cries for Sherlock. He cries for himself. He cries for Mary. He cries for his friends from his army days. He cries for what is and what was. He cries for what could have been and what will never be.

He cries and collapses and scratches and pulls and pushes.

His breaths come in gasps and as his mind slows down they begin to ground him. He focuses on them, on the tangible. His vision refocuses and the colors return.

As John's breaths begin to feel lighter, he picks himself off the ground and showers.

He gets dressed and brushes his hair and begins to feel human again.

He knows what he has to do but he doesn't know if he can do it.