Author's Note: Hello I am Alex.

He nodded, trying to get himself together to at least try to speak.

John looked up finally at the grave in front of him. It was like he remembered it but only the least bit aged since the last time he saw it. It was a beautiful marker, dark and mysterious and cool. Just like him.

"I-I'm sorry, Sherlock." John whispered but his voice broke and he had to get himself together once more. "It's...It's been six months and I can't- I can't...do this...anymore. I can't..." He shut his teary eyes and wiped them. "You...you aren't coming back, Sherlock, are you? You're not..." he took a breath, the tears streaming down. Why was he even here? He couldn't stay anywhere near this gravesite. It was too much. His therapist had told him not to come. "I can't...God I can't..." He ran off and out of the cemetery, crying his hardest. He couldn't say a proper goodbye to Sherlock. As John was finally out of the cemetery, it dawned at him that maybe he didn't have to.

John sat on the couch of the new flat he rented out by himself. He stared at his phone with longing. He had texted hundreds of times. There never had been any answer. He knew there would be no answer even now but this had to be a gateway. This was his only outlet.

I miss you.

JW

I miss you so much, Sherlock.

JW

And I can't pretend that I can do this by myself because I can't.

JW

A tear fell right onto the phone screen but John wiped it away and kept typing.

Please come back and stop this. Stop me.

JW

John waited for the longest on that couch, phone in hand. He stared at it until the battery died and he broke apart inside, sobbing into the pillow and staring into the darkness.

The wind hit him right in the face when John Watson opened the door to the rooftop. He paused in the doorway, looking around but seeing nothing. He walked over the old and forgotten dried patch of blood there. He stepped right over it. He stopped, a few steps in front of the edge. That very edge. The last place he saw Sherlock. He shut his eyes, took a steadying breath before stepping up onto the ledge, phone in hand and gun in his pocket. His thumb ran over his trusty mobile phone as he turned it on to text.

How could you do this?

JW

I don't blame you. I blame him. He made you do this. I know it. Jim won.

JW

I never believed them, not for a fleeting moment. I swear to god. Why wasn't I enough? Why couldn't I stop you? Why did you jump? I didn't even know you were depressed. I'm a horrible friend.

JW

John stopped when he could no longer see through the tears clouding his vision. He wiped them all away with the scarf wrapped around his neck. It had been Sherlock's. The scent he used to get from it had been run out, along with the rest of his happiness. His best friend was dead. Why wasn't he?

Hello, Sherlock. I'll see you soon.

JW

And John threw down his phone, slipping the gun out of his pocket as he brought it up to his temple and pulled the trigger.