John set down his phone on the stand next to his rocker and rose. Rope, knife, pill, poison, drugs, gun, and jump- so many options, he thought as he walked down the hallway. He couldn't use the rope because there was no ceiling fan to hang from. No knives because the blood would seep through the floor over Mrs. Hudson- no need to ruin her floors and devastate her so soon. No pill because he shot the cabby that had the only pills he would deem worthy. No poison because he had thrown away the chemicals and concoctions to forget about Sherlock, which he never did. No drugs because he had used up his stash- again. The only options left were the gun and the building.
Oh, to jump down to death would be too easy, too emotionally connected and too perfect of a death. John knew he was not meant for a perfect death, but a soldier's one- and a soldier's death is never perfect. "The gun it is." He said, the first real smile of many months crossing his lips.
It was finally going to be over, all of the pain and the heartache and the isolation- over with a single pull of a trigger. John went to Sherlock's room, where he now slept, and retrieved his gun.