A/N: Trigger Warning: Major character death, suicide, angst, the whole shebang. I'm really sorry, this was going to be a happy little fic, but then angst happened, and I've been pretty good at controlling it so far...*hides*
Day #14: Ghost
Vanished
(Rated T)
John had tried, he really did. After Sherlock's suicide, he attended every therapist meeting he could, sometimes going in twice a week. He listened to everything she said, trying to take her advice, but it never got any better. Once a week he visited Sherlock's grave, staring at the sleek black stone as if trying to make sense of everything. It never got any better.
It had been three years. Three long years without Sherlock, without cases, without hope. It had been three years since John had written in his blog, a small post with a sad video attached.
"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."
He couldn't take it anymore. Mycroft was working on proving Sherlock innocent in the whole Richard Brook scandal, but it wasn't enough. He could take the whispers on the street, the glares and glances of pity from strangers. He was tired of living without Sherlock, tired of never having the chance to tell him how he felt. It was just too hard to continue living. John had tried, but he was done trying.
The entire plan was simple, write a goodbye note, then put a bullet through his brain. The perfect place for the note was his blog. It hasn't been updated in over a year, so the likelyhood of someone seeing it right away was minimal. They would find it around the same time they found his body. Just a sad little man with a sad little life.
He planned it accordingly. It would be on the anniversary of Sherlock's death, a final testament to the man he loved. The morning of his death date, he would spread plastic across the floor, try to keep the mess to a minimum. He didn't want to burden someone else because he didn't choose a cleaner death.
The day came, and John was the happiest he had been in three years. Today was the day he would get to see Sherlock again, and the thought send a thrill of joy up his spine. God, he missed that mad flatmate of his. But he wouldn't for long. Only a few more hours now.
John whistled cheerfully as he laid down the plastic tarp, making sure he covered every possible surface. He then began polishing his Browning, making sure it shone. When that was done, John walked over to his laptop, pulling up his blog. He typed out a short message, posting it immediately.
I have missed you, old friend. See you soon.
John smiled at the bright screen before standing and walking to the middle of the room. He twirled the gun in his hand before putting the barrel in his mouth. Sucking in a final breath, John's finger tightened on the trigger, then darkness.
The loud pounding on the door woke John, and with a groan, he sat up, rubbing his forehead blearily. The banging got louder, and John got to his feet, walking towards the door. He was trying to sleep, and they were ruining his dreams. He had almost reached the door when it flew open, banging against the wall. There in the doorway stood Sherlock Holmes in all his glory, looking at something behind John in horror.
"Sherlock!" John cried, walking towards the man in disbelief. "You're...you're alive!"
"John..." Sherlock whispered, and John was shocked to discover his eyes full of tears.
"Sherlock, it's alright. Everything is alright now..." He began, annoyed when Sherlock walked around him.
No. Through him.
"What the hell?" John cursed softly, turning around to look at Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was on the ground, forehead pressed against someone else's. Tears were streaming freely from his eyes, landing in big splashes against the other man's cheeks. The face of the prone man was recognizable, but what captured his attention was the jumper.
His jumper.
"Oh god." John felt sick as he looked at himself, horrified to discover that he was translucent. "Sherlock...oh god, Sherlock. I'm so sorry."
Sherlock couldn't hear John. He couldn't hear his dead friend beg for his forgiveness, just as he was begging forgiveness from John. He couldn't see the invisible hand attempt to brush away his fringe, comforting him as he smoothed the blood away from the face of the body in front of him.
They were both so alone.