Snow drifted down to meet John Watson, causing him to shiver and wrinkle his nose. The blanket was piling up quickly, and it crunched under his feet, a constant reminder that winter had arrived. His shoes were hardly waterproof, having soaked through long ago, his toes now cold and numb. Flakes stuck into his hair, as well as clung to his black shooting jacket. Some of the bolder flakes landed on the back of his neck, or sneaked their way beneath John's coat collar, causing him to shiver all the more.

A scarf would prevent that.

The voice was familiar and snarky, echoing throughout John's mind. He wished it would shut up, even though it spoke the truth. A scarf did well to keep the snowflakes and cold out of his collar and away from his neck. It wasn't worth it though- scarfs were an unpleasant reminder.

With each step he took, he added to the trail from Sherlock's grave. He'd ridden a cab to the cemetery- it had just started snowing then- but it wasn't all that far. It would be easier to walk back to the flat then to attempt getting a cab in the snow. Besides, he enjoyed the time to himself- time to think without having to piece together fake bits of conversation.

Three years had passed since Sherlock's death, yet John remained ever loyal to the man. It hadn't taken long to begin noticing the effects- over the following months, John's limp had returned, worse than ever. It was even more frustrating now- now that he knew the cause, yet was still unable to "fix" it. While the limp had returned over time, the nightmares had started up almost instantly. At first, John had been unable to sleep entirely because of them. Now, while he was able to sleep hours at a time, a decent night's sleep was still a joke. Now, he longed for the nightmares of war- of seeing his comrades being gunned down. He would welcome them, if it meant his present nightmares would vanish- if they would prove to be simply nightmares, and not reality.

Now, it was always his face- pale and bloodied. Eyes seemed to stare into nowhere, completely vacant and dead. Over and over, he lived it again, every night, as if stuck in some hellish limbo- as if each time, he was given a chance to "fix" it, and yet he continued to fail, just as he was unable to "fix" himself. He'd awake with a start, drenched in a cold sweat, breathing heavy and painful as if he'd just completed a marathon. His eyes would search blindingly in the darkness, fingers tangling and clutching at the cold comforter of his bed, and he'd call out softly to Sherlock. There'd be a pause, and he'd call again, and again, until it became a mantra- a prayer. It would become desperate- he'd begin to beg, yet will away the tears that pricked at his eyes, until he'd once again doze off to restart his nightmare, being doomed to fail once more from the start.

Of course, he'd told his therapist very little of this, but apparently he'd told her enough- she wasn't a stupid woman. She'd pieced most of it together, John was sure. At first, John had loyally visited Sherlock's grave every day, with no exceptions. Going on like that for nearly a year, his therapist had pushed him to pull back, just a bit. John was entirely aware that she was attempting to help him move on, but he didn't want to. He'd then begin to wonder why he was attending therapy at all- he hated how things were now, but he certainly couldn't move on from Sherlock.

After a year, John had begun to visit Sherlock's grave less- much to his displeasure. He'd no longer go on weekends, instead only visiting weekdays after work. He even tried cutting it down to three days a week, but that he was unable to stand, and had stuck to every weekday ever since.

It was a Monday, on this particular day, which meant that John had taken along a bottle of some foul cleaning liquid, provided by Mrs. Hudson, and some dirty rags. Three years, and it was still common to find graffiti on Sherlock's grave. John didn't know how it happened- he knew someone was supposed to be watching over the cemetery to make sure that it didn't. However, almost without fail, after every weekend, John would come to find foul words painted onto the headstone, or garbage littering the area. That made Monday cleaning day- John would take time to scrub away the paint, and collect the garbage. Sometimes he'd pull weeds or bring flowers- anything he could do to keep the grave looking nice. He knew it was foolish, even as he did it, but he still couldn't help himself, as if it was his final desperate act of taking care of the man he'd come to care for so deeply. He could no longer order Sherlock to eat a meal, or get some sleep, but at least there was this.

John lost track of time as he walked, though he was sure it took quite a while to reach 221B. The coldness of winter made his leg ache more than ever, and he quickly regretted not calling for a cab, but as his eyes scanned the silent road, there were none to be seen- the moment you needed or wanted something, it was sure to not be there.

Eventually the familiar green door of 221B came into view, causing John to breathe a sigh of relief- his breath came out in a visible cloud, due to the chill. After climbing the few stairs to the door, he kicked snow from his shoes, as well as tapped the end of his cane on the step before heading in. Mrs. Hudson was there to greet him in an instant.

"Afternoon, John. Biscuits are in the oven- I'll bring some up," she stated with a smile. John forced a smile and nodded thankfully before heading up the creaky wooden stairs to the next floor.

He felt for Mrs. Hudson- he really did. He knew that Sherlock's death had hit her almost as hard as it had hit him- as if she'd lost a son, really- but she continued to fret and worry over John. She couldn't have missed return of his limp, or the fact that his jumpers hung much looser on him than they previously had. Still, she never pointed it out, simply offering to help in small ways, such as bringing John snacks without him asking, or mentioning certain pain reliefs that had worked surprisingly well for her hip pains. Ever the mother, concerned for her one remaining son- the one left behind.

The flat was colder than it had once been. It had always had poor insulation, but John had always been overheated from running around town with Sherlock, or even on their evenings in, there was often a fire made. The fireplace had sat empty for some time- no sense in making a fire for just himself.

The flat, for the most part, looked the same as it had when he'd shared it with the consulting detective. A bit more tidy, he supposed, without Sherlock to make a mess of it all the time- the kitchen table was cleared of experiments, Sherlock's violin was tucked safely away in its case, and no papers could be seen strewn about. At first, John had tried packing up things- both his own, as well as Sherlock's, yet he'd never been able to get very far. The tears would prick past his eyes, and before he knew it, he'd be suppressing sobs. Mrs. Hudson had always offered to help, but it became very clear that it would be just as painful to move away from 221B- to move on- as it would be to stay. 221B was the last thread left to cling to of the life he'd once shared with Sherlock Holmes.

Before, John would have slid his jumper off to hang near the door, next to Sherlock's coat, or drape over the back of one of the armchairs. Now, he often opted to keep it on to fight off the constant chill of the flat. Not only that, but it pained him to see the empty coat rack- he'd seen it many times before, when Sherlock had been off at the morgue, or on a case he didn't need John's assistance with. The empty coat rack simply meant that John had to be patient and wait, and it a few hours time, Sherlock would return. John was now in an odd limbo, waiting an eternity for Sherlock to return, though knowing the impossibility of it all.

Instead, John simply went to sit in his armchair as he so often did. Sherlock's was still across from his own, and some nights, if John got tired enough, and stared hard enough, he could almost see Sherlock staring back at him from the chair. Just as he was about to sit, he paused, glancing over at Sherlock's violin case. At times, he'd open it, stroking his fingertips gently across the strings of the instrument, though it often caused him to wince, as if the sound produced was offending. It would remind him of Sherlock sitting near the fireplace in his chair, plucking away at the strings and he tuned the violin. Silently, John made his way over to the case, his fingers brushing the dusty, rough fabric. No, he wouldn't open it today- the strings would be out of tune, as always, begging for Sherlock to return and give them proper attention.

The doctor turned to the cabinet, which neither he nor Sherlock had every used for anything but a catch-all. Slowly, he knelt to the floor once more, his leg screaming in protest. Reaching under the desk, he dug around until his hand bumped against a hard, familiar case, which he nudged at until he finally got a decent grip on it, pulling it from underneath the cabinet. There'd been a time when John had frequently pulled the gun case from its hiding place, always making sure to take it with him when Sherlock called him off to a case. However, nowadays it remained nearly forgotten, surrounded by dust bunnies.

After rearranging himself, John sat back onto the floor, opening the case to stare down at the gun he'd grown so used to holding- he'd shot that gun, killing a man, on the first case he'd ever taken with Sherlock. He'd shot it many times- one more time wouldn't make a difference, would it?

John Watson had never been a suicidal man- true, he'd dealt a great deal with a range of emotional issues, but those were all after effects of war. But this was different- he'd been extremely melancholy since Sherlock's death. Unable to focus too long, his mind would constantly drift to the man. John had nearly given up dating completely, finding very clearly that he wasn't "into" the dates he went on. Besides, it was too much work- more people to smile artificially for. John had trust issues- everyone and their uncle seemed to have learned that by now. He'd trusted Sherlock- more than anyone- and he found himself completely unable to trust anyone else.

Absentmindedly, John's fingers ran over the gun in its case, as gently as if they were in fact handling Sherlock's violin. The gun was cool, yet welcoming- it would be fast- over in an instant. John really didn't have expectations for the afterlife- perhaps Sherlock would be waiting for him in something similar to Heaven- a "paradise" of sorts. If not, perhaps he could simply sleep and not have to worry about waking up.

"Suicide seems a bit dramatic for you," came a familiar voice from the kitchen doorway. "Much too selfish for the John Watson I know."

"I'm not the John Watson you know."

A/N: I'm so sorry! I forgot to write the note the first time I posted it, so here's an edit. I know this chapter is slow, but hopefully it'll get a bit more interesting as it moves along. That being said, yes, there will be more to come very soon!