The sun is out as I open my eyes. The first thought to cross my mind is, Its been 728 days since I buried my best friend.

The clock says that it is already mid-morning. I am glad to have finally fallen asleep. It seems that sleep is always out of reach for me. Sleep is usually found when my body can no longer function. My mind never seems to shut off. I am cursed to relive my nightmares whether I am awake or not.

This morning my mind keeps replaying the funeral. It is the day I believe that I broke. I became a shell. Strong and Loyal John H. Watson fell apart. People stood around the final resting place of the man that was everything to me, they weren't there for him. He was just a "freak" to most of these people. Some of them I blamed for his death. He was driven off that roof. These people broke him. I wasn't enough to keep him alive.

I believe it was the moment the box began to descend into the ground is the moment that shattered me. I kept thinking he would come around the corner at any moment. He would be there showing me how clever he really was. He would prove just how brilliant he was. That box slowly sinking into the ground ended me. It was over. He wasn't coming back, he was gone.

I remember hearing a noise, heartbreaking, and realized it came from me. The ground met my knees as I fell forward. Words escaped my mouth, I still can't remember what I yelled. I lashed out at everyone. Greg had to drag me away. The soldier with the nerves of steel had disintegrated in front of everyone. They buried that part of me when they buried my best friend.

Time wasn't making things easier. If anything, it was getting worse for me. I couldn't think of many reasons for existing anymore. What was the point?
_

Sitting here, looking at his empty chair is one of the only connections I have left. I spend hours watching the seat, picturing his long lean frame curled into the chair. It always amazed me that he could take that body full of feline grace and curl it up into the strangest positions. I spend hours upon hours recalling every way he ever placed himself in that chair. Sometimes I can almost see him there, his feet pulled up on the seat, his elbows on his knees, hands in a prayer pose under his chin. Nausea takes over and I need to get out of the flat. The never ending cycle of needing to be there to feel him still and the need to get far away before I am crushed.

I seem to always end up in the same spot when I flee the suffocating sadness that is my flat. Not just my flat to be truthful, my whole life is suffocating. Nothing makes sense anymore. The streets are always the same, the trip never seems to change. St. Bart's is there in front of me. I look up to the roof line. That damn roof line that changed my life forever.

I replay the phone call. He never called, only text. He tried to tell me he was fake, a trick he did. Never would I believe it. He was the most amazing man I ever knew. I told him this, too late, as I stood at his grave months later. I still blame myself, I wasn't enough to keep him with me. He was what kept me alive and I lived for him. I was his balance. I kept him grounded. I did a piss poor job at the end. St. Bart's stood there and mocked me once again. I turned and started the trip home.

It took me a while to realize that I was in love. I always had pushed any thought like that back into the depths of my mind. Everyone else knew it, even assumed that it was a given. I could say we weren't a couple a million times but they all knew the truth. I couldn't even keep a girlfriend. He mattered more. I had fooled myself over and over again that it was just what best mates did. Yeah, ok, best mates drop everything at any given moment for each other. Best mates always looked at a text they got while snogging a woman in her bed. Best mates would always leave said woman sitting there wondering what just happened as I closed the door.

Sherlock never said a word when people would assume we were lovers. He just kept on with the work. I was the one to try to make people see that I was not gay. I am not gay, but I am in love with Sherlock Holmes. Saying his name hurts beyond anything I could imagine.

I can't breathe without him. He was the very air I took in. He was the sun that lit the sky. He was the rain that fell against my skin. He was my everything.

Finding out that you love someone can be an amazing thing. It can make everything seem to make sense. It is like slowly crawling in the darkness and trying to make your way through, shuffling through the mud and filth and suddenly there is a light, a brightness to show you the right path, a glow to fill you with hope and joy. Finding out that I was in love with a dead man shook me to my core. My hell had opened up and was now my entire existence. Blackness took over my world. There would be no brightness to pull me out of my misery, no angel to guide me to my hope and joy. I was left empty. I would never be able to see his smile again, the one he shared with only myself. Never would I hear his voice that was like dark chocolate, sweet and sensuous. His laughter, soft and genuine, would haunt me. The ever changing color of his eyes, never seeming to pick a color, swirling in and out of blue and green, were extinct.

He brought me back from a partial life, a life barely lived. I lived more in the time with him than all the years before. That was over, I was over. There was no reason to keep going. None.

The darkness in my room is rather calming. I feel a sense of calm that I haven't had in 2 years. Funny how this hits now that I have made this choice. It isn't the first time I have thought about it. Years ago there was a time when I flirted with it, not really making a choice, then I met Sherlock. He filled that void that was empty in my soul. I was finally alive again. Now there is nothing left.

_

Sitting in my room, cell phone in hand, I debate saying goodbye to a few people. Greg has been here for me since the beginning. He has tried to keep me sane. Mrs. Hudson has tried to keep me fed and healthy. She has tried to be motherly. It makes it worse. I am hoping they won't take this personal. This is my choice, I just have had enough of the emptiness, the sadness, the loss. Everything that made life worth living fell when Sherlock jumped.

I send a text to Greg. He won't have too much time to respond.

Thanks for everything- JW

There is no other note to leave. Everyone will know why I decided to do this.

My gun is clean and well maintained. It can handle this job. Being a doctor I know just what to do. I will succeed in the task. The gun feels perfect in my hand, too long has passed since it had a purpose. Defending Sherlock has ended years ago. Finally a task it was able to do.

I take some deep breaths, knowing that soon the pain would end. The gun warms in my hands.

BEEP

The light on my cell phone catches my eyes. I figure its Greg. He is probably concerned. Looking over at the phone, its a number I don't know. It feels rather odd, to put the gun aside and open the message. Who pauses in the middle of a suicide?

I read across the screen,

A bit not good John

I can't breathe all of a sudden, the room starts to get very hot. Only one person has ever said these words to me. I lean over the bed and throw up.