He pressed the barrel of his British army browning L9A1 to his temple. He couldn't take it anymore, the numbing emptiness of Sherlock's absence. The feeling of his lips slowly fleeing his own, and everyone thinking the detective- his detective- was a fake.It hurt, it all hurt.
His fingers ghosted the trigger as his mind played the scene over again, the words "Goodbye, John" Ringing in his ears. His trembling fingers were ready to make it stop, when he heard that same voice call from the other side of the door, "John." Sherlock said, "I know you've changed the locks, please just let me in."
Everything in his body froze. He slowly moved from his place in Sherlock's chair, opening the door and staring at the disheveled figure in disbelief. It was most certainly Sherlock Holmes. Those eyes were unmistakable. "S-Sher.." Words failed him. He only stared at the taller man for what seemed like days.
Sherlock offered a weak smile. "I'm home." He whispered, trying not to cry at the sight of his lost lover. But that quickly changed as he watched the doctor press the cold metal to his forehead and pull the trigger.
Because this had been the third time he'd seen Sherlock "Come home". And he couldn't handle someone telling him it was all his imagination.