Hello everyone~ I wanted to write my own Johnlock suicide-thingy fic...I'm sure you all get the jist of what that is. I thrive on reviews! Well, here goes for the first chapter! Enjoy.

The rain patted softly on the window of the man who was doing his best to remain in a steady stream of unconsciousness. He hadn't slept well in ages, well, a year to be exact.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

The irritating noise shattered the peacefulness of the morning, and, doing its duty, woke the previously dreaming man. John grumbled, hating to be pulled of the wonderful dream he was having.

The recurring dream that, for a short time in the dreary day, allowed him to escape to a better world. A world that contained those who were important to him, and the one who made life worth living to begin with.

Standing, he ruffled the back of his hair, and made his way down the stairs to the bathroom. John had decided to remain in Baker Street, much to Mycroft and Lestrade's dismay. They were hoping he would move out, and begin the healing process faster. But with a firm determination that always accompanied the good doctor, he refused to move. Mycroft had merely sighed and agreed to pay for the continued rent of 221 B so long as John lived there. Greg hadn't been so keen and have even remained in the flat with John for the first month and a half in order to ensure John didn't make any stupid decisions. He left afterwards, and things had picked up for a little while, only to begin falling back apart in a matter of weeks. The flat hadn't changed much in a year, perhaps another layer of dust had gathered, and certainly there was a massive shortage of food in the cabinets, which was unusual for a man who was supposed to be taking good care of himself.

John sighed as he stripped and glanced at himself in the mirror before turning the water on.

He was skinnier than he had ever been. The ribs protruding in a very displeasing manner, while his skin looked stretched and sickly pale. John's once lively and sparkling blue eyes now barely flickered with life as he continued the daily motions he knew he was required to complete. That was it though. Requirement.

He stood in the water, rubbing his face. John woke up every morning now, not with the prospect of life, but with the dismal regret he couldn't stop himself from feeling. Mycroft had threatened to station someone in his house to make sure he was eating and going through the day as much as possible. So, John began creating the best façade he had ever made. It tricked Mycroft enough, or at least John had assumed so since he hadn't heard from him in weeks.

One year…he thought to himself as he finished and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, and moved to the sink to shave off the stubble that had been growing in the past week.

It's been over a year since Sher-…since he left.

John swallowed tightly as the contents of his stomach threatened to escape his stomach. Not that it would have been much, John couldn't recall what the last thing he had eaten was, or when it had been for that matter. It generally all came back up anyway, so he decided it was advantageous to him to keep things out of it to begin with. Mrs. Hudson had began to worry about him, but it was hard to tell how much weight he had lost; those jumpers he wore were very good at concealing his body.

He splashed the water on his face, clearing off the remaining shaving cream, and headed back upstairs to get dressed for work. He kept his job at the clinic, that was the only thing that managed to get him out of bed. Lestrade and he met up weekly for drinks, but John didn't think of it as companionship in the same respect that Greg did. He was there for the cloud that sank over his mind after having a few. Blocking out memories of the wonderful consulting detective he had become so attached to. Pulling on his trousers, he made his way downstairs and reached for his coat, pausing momentarily to decide if he should consume some sort of nourishment. After all, he'd even told She-HIM that a transport needs energy.

"Not like I would keep it down anyway," he muttered to himself, and zipped up his jacket before trudging down the stairs to grab a cab, it had started raining a few days ago, and ceaselessly poured on.

"Oh John, dear," came a voice from behind him. John turned, a smile upon his face towards the sweet landlady-not-your-house keeper- Mrs. Hudson.

"I was making dinner last night, and I had so many leftovers I figured you would take them," she said, handing him a container with meatloaf and some vegetables in it.

"Oh, thank you Mrs. Hudson. Saves me from buying lunch today," he replied with a small chuckle. She wished him a good day, and John proceeded down the wet stairs to wave down a taxi before he was drenched to the bone, and came down with a cold that would prevent him from working. He doubted he would eat the food. It would most likely be left in the communal fridge until it either molded or someone else grabbed it. John didn't mind. If someone else could enjoy Mrs. Hudson's practically famous cooking, they should.

The day passed without incident. A few flu cases, some prescription renewals, and a couple of morons who thought it would be great fun to shove a cotton swab up ones arse. Exactly what did people do for entertainment nowadays?

John sighed as he removed his gloves and checked the clock. That had been his last appointment of the day, and the knowledge of finally being able to head home and remain alone in his isolation gave him a guilty smile. He took a sip of tea he had made earlier, but it was cold now. He mentally shrugged and finished it off anyways. At least he had something in his system to preoccupy his stomach.

"John?" Sarah stuck her head in through the door suddenly. "Would you like to come to the pub with us? Weekend deals are on!" she asked him cheerfully. John mustered up a gracious smile. The thought of going drinking wasn't terribly unpleasant, but the thought of his colleagues watching him drink himself into oblivion was. He nibbled on a biscuit that was left on his desk from the morning, and managed a piece of muffin that was on the plate as well. So much for nourishment.

"Actually, I have plans today, but thank you for offering." She nodded and left without another word. People had stopped questioning him about what he was doing every second of the day after a few months, all worried about what trouble he was getting himself into. But as time went on, and John's smile remained intact, people believed he was doing better.

The smile fell from his face after the door shut, and he buried his head in his hands. Oh how wrong they were. Each and every day John was fighting the urge to simply end it all, and go to join the one he cared about most. The temptation was always in his fingertips, but in the back of his mind an annoying voice reminded him that not only was Mycroft probably still watching him, but that Sherlock would disapprove as well. His breath hitched in his throat. That name. That wonderfully ingenious name that had brought him the greatest joy he had ever imagined, as well as the cruelest despair he had ever felt. He didn't think of his name often. It brought back memories more strongly, and those were memories he was doing his best to let go, and forget if he possibly could. But he wouldn't. He cherished those memories, the ones that made him into the person he was today.

John stood, shaking slightly, and set his paperwork aside; it could wait until Monday morning. For now, he had somewhere more important to be.

The now navy sky rumbled as the storm drizzled on. It wasn't raining hard, but the thunder that echoed throughout London made John question as to when it would begin to fall at a much more drastic pace. He shivered slightly as the wind blew suddenly, but he didn't leave his spot. The cemetery was generally empty on normal days, and was barren with the rain that fell. It was peaceful, and calming to be able to speak his mind without being overheard. He cast his eyes down on the onyx stone. The flowers had been replaced recently; John made sure they were changed at least once a week.

"I'm surprised I keep coming back here," he said more to himself than the gravestone in front of him, "but I just keep hoping that maybe…maybe you aren't dead. I know I asked for a miracle…" his voice trailed off. He wasn't sure what to say anymore. He had already told much of his life story and daily dealings during other visits.

"Greg keeps checking up on me once a week. S'pose I shouldn't be surprised since he and Mycroft has become so close. Did you know they were together? Probably, there wasn't much anyone could hide from you, especially your brother," he smiled amusedly. The Holmes brothers' relationship was certainly a thing to behold. But now that Greg and Mycroft had made it official, it had softened the minor British government worker some.

"I don't know why I keep doing it. Acting like everything is going alright on the inside, when I wish I could be next to you," he choked on the emotion threatening to overflow.

"Everyone buys it…I'm not sure if they really know, or I'm simply becoming a much better liar. I like to think the latter. Wouldn't want to worry anyone unnecessarily." His coat was drenched now, standing in the rain for so long. But he continued.

"I never got the courage to tell you how I really felt Sherlock," his voice broke as John said his name, "I wanted to tell you so many times. You were more than just the one who put me back together, who made me feel like I wasn't alone anymore," a few tears had found there way past his defenses.

"I love you Sherlock," he practically whispered. He wasn't even sure he had spoken the words. "And I need you to come home now…or at the very least…I'm desperate to come home to you again. I miss you Sherlock. Going through the motions, day after day, month after month, and now a year. God, Sherlock a year? I can hardly believe it." He wiped his face with his sleeve.

"I want to see you again…And I'm ready to do anything for it Sherlock…anything that's necessary." He said, and with a brush of his hand against the grave marker, he turned and left.

He made it back to Baker Street and debated whether to change, or attempt to catch pneumonia. John had stopped seeing his psychiatrist shortly after Sherlock's death. He didn't feel like she was helping any by forcing him to relive the nightmare he faced when he slept, day after day. He had stopped caring about the world long ago, and only wished to be left alone in his grief and misery. John found his footsteps leading to his room without being asked to, and changing out of habit. The doctor in him knew pneumonia would be silly to get, especially when he could prevent it. He trudged back down the stairs in pajamas, and checked to make sure the doors were locked. When he was certain he was alone, he made his way into the kitchen and reached into the cabinet above the counter. Grabbing the first bottle within reach he started to pour himself a glass. Downing it he filled another, and another, and another, before finally deciding it was pointless and took the bottle with his as he made his way over to the sofa. He turned on the telly for background noise, and curled up with his union jack pillow. His brain was fuzzy now, and his memories came out like the dam had broke inside his mind.

Sherlock. His scarf, his experiments, that belstaff coat that only added to his gorgeousness. John curled the pillow closer to himself as the tears began. Remembering it all. Finding him in the school building and shooting the taxi driver without hesitation after only knowing him for a day. The terror he felt as Moriarty strapped him into a bomb jacket and was threatening to blow Sherlock up. The true fear he recognized on Sherlock's face in Baskerville, how frightened he had been and raced to be with his companion. The snide remarks towards the inept officers on the police force. Sherlock showing up at Buckingham palace in nothing but a sheet, and then managing to swipe an ashtray; John had giggled about it for days afterwards. Sherlock's face as it lit up at the thought of the possibility of a serial killer.

Oh it's Christmas! A serial killer! Sherlock's voice echoed in his mind. His face when it glimmered with a smile towards John on a crime scene. The infernal experiments that would stink up the house, or sometimes cause John to react so violently that Sherlock would be forced to discontinue the experiment altogether. Those times when a big smirk would cross his face every time someone referred to them as dating and John would deliberately shout, "I'm NOT GAY." Sherlock blowing away John's mind with his deductions, always receiving an "amazing," or something similar. The day when John realized he had fallen head over heels for the world's only consulting detective. The joy that raced through his heart, and blush that crept up on his cheeks would he would find himself staring at Sherlock for no reason. He would never comment, merely smile at John and continue whatever it was he was doing. The nights when he would wake up from his nightmares in the middle of the night, and fall peacefully back to sleep to the sound of the echoing violin. And then that fateful day. John began to sob as the vivid memory played through his mind.

"This phone call it's…it's my note. That's what people do don't they? Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No, DON'T –… SHERLOCK!"

John wept into the pillow, the bottle fell from his hand, landing somewhere on the floor. It was mostly empty, not going to leak everywhere.

"Sherlock…," he whispered to himself, "Please…please come back," he pleaded. Wishing that somewhere, Sherlock could hear him and would answer him. End his misery, and come back to the doctor, hi blogger.

"And if not…please let me come to you."