John sat in the chair, looking out at the darkening grey South London skies.

It looked like he felt. Dark; grey; miserable.

Pointless, John thought. It's all pointless.

He'd had moments of hope after Greg called round. Fleeting moments when he saw light where previously there had been only dark. Minutes when he actually believed that he could get through this. Break out of this prison of grief and despair.

And then came the confusion. How could he possibly?
Sherlock would always still be dead.

Maybe numb had been better.
Numb had helped him to live; kept him alive.
But then, then there had been release.
The adrenaline; the endorphins; the release from the absolutely nothingness.

His eyes flickered towards the bathroom.
It was there. It was all right there. Everything he needed.
Everything he needed to just end this.
To just end this emptiness; this pain and suffering; this pointless life.

Right here. Right now.

He stood and walked to the bathroom...