A/N This fic is dedicated to Suzanne (or tumblr user missawkwardconversation), who just finished watching all episodes of Sherlock and now ships Johnlock like the Titanic. Welcome to the fandom, sweetie!

This fic will have three chapters. It's also my first attempt at writing Sherlock fan fiction. I hope you'll like it!

CHAPTER ONE

On the day that John Watson decided to kill himself, he was having tea and biscuits with Mrs. Hudson. She had been telling a heartfelt story about her days as a young dressmaker, right at the peak of her youth and not giving any second thoughts on what she might be in the future. Her eyes glistened with reminiscence as John poured her another cup, laughing along.

"Oh, but I also had quite a lot of suitors—and mind you, dear, I was quite the lovely maiden in my time…"

John leaned back in his seat, staring intently at the overcast sky outside the window of Mrs. Hudson's flat. He didn't talk much, but that's alright. She knew—they all knew—that he'd grown weary of talking ever since Sherlock's theatrical disappearance. Usually, he prided himself in being able to keep his composure intact through the most desperate times. He was a soldier who invaded Afghanistan. He'd seen enough blood and violence to last him a lifetime. He'd been shot and been on the brink of death more times than he could count. But he made it through, and he was proud of that.

But when your best friend unexpectedly commits suicide in front of your very eyes, that is a different story. When that happened to John, he didn't even have to question it. Didn't even try to deny it. He just knew. John Watson knew that he would never be able to become whole again.

It had been two years, ten months, and seventeen days since the fall. There had been days of complete depression. Some days he felt empty, like a hollow mass of skins and cells and tissues that coordinated with one another to keep him alive against his will. There were days when he could laugh and hang out with what few friends he had. There were also days when he would lie down on his bed and relive the scene over and over again in his mind, not eating and sleeping for days on end. He still remembered it all as if not a day had gone by. The colour of the sky. The cool wind that bit at his skin. The sharp sound of the body of the love of his life as it hit the pavement.

He had been good at keeping up his charade. Everyone truly believed that he had moved on. He was still able to smile and tell stories, and he even had his job as a general practitioner at the hospital. He had gloomy days, for sure, but they all just thought it was a simple case of the sniffles. He had everyone fooled, but it was only a matter of time before it became exhausting. He found it unbearable to keep smiling when there was nothing that made him happy. To eat and walk and breathe as if he was still living, when in fact he was not. Because as far as he was concerned, when Sherlock jumped off that roof on that fateful day, he'd taken John's life as well as his own.

And then he saw him, out of the corner of his eye. John fixed his gaze past Mrs. Hudson's ear and onto her fireplace where, leaning on the mantelpiece, Sherlock Holmes stood. He had on his coat and signature blue scarf, his mop of dark hair protruding at every angle. He was pale, paler than John had ever seen him. John stared into his eyes and a lingering smile tugged upon the corners of his lips.

Sherlock seemed to be saying something to him, but he could not understand what it was. He raised an eyebrow to urge him to repeat, but Sherlock only shook his head, brought a finger to his lips and said, "Shhh. Listen."

"John. John, are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson appeared, blocking his view of the mantelpiece. Although he knew that if he were to look again, Sherlock would already be gone.

"I-I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson," he answered. "I haven't gotten a lot of sleep last night, so I'm feeling a bit woozy today. Nothing an afternoon nap won't fix." He gave her a reassuring smile.

"If you say so, then I guess it would be better if you go back to your flat. Thank you for having tea with me. I'll see you in the morning!"

Once he was back inside the walls of 221B, he let his shoulders sag and his face wear down. It was only in here that he could truly relish the thoughts of his deceased best friend. He was forced to make some changes, but he kept the essentials the same. Of course, he'd gotten rid of the preserved body parts in the fridge and the smorgasbord of laboratory equipment was all boxed up in Sherlock's room, but he never touched anything else. Sherlock's room was in the exact same state he left it in, save for the bed sheets that John took to sleeping in during some particularly gloomy days. His violin was unpacked and unpolished. The skull was still a looming presence on the mantelpiece.

As much as John liked Mrs. Hudson, he was glad to be alone. There were too many thoughts in his mind and he knew that there was only one thing that could fix that. It was what he looked forward to the most at the end of a long day. It was also his secret, one so precious that he must keep, lest he risk being sent back to his therapist. He shuddered. No. He didn't need that. She told him he had to forget. To move on. He didn't want that. The thought of him was the only thing that kept him alive these days and she was not about to take that away from him.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to Sherlock's room and stepped inside. There he was, sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning on his elbows and looking up at John with his ever-changing sea green eyes. "You've had a rough day," he said, and the sound of his voice kept John's feet planted firmly on the ground.

"I'm not even going to ask how you deduced that," he replied jokingly. He walked toward the bed and mimicked Sherlock's position. John looked at him, his heart breaking quite a bit at the blurriness of his profile when up close. He had eyes, a nose, a mouth, but John longed to see the wrinkles on the corners of his eyes whenever he smiled, the little dip of a philtrum above his lips and the lines on his forehead. Instead, all he could see was the plain expanse of white skin, reminding him once again the terrible predicament he had gotten himself in.

"Life was a lot easier when you were here," John told him. Sherlock frowned slightly, and he continued. "Yes, I know you were an absolutely unbearable flatmate," he giggled, "But you were mad. Mad and absolutely brilliant. And I can't keep on living without you. Because even though you're not here anymore, you're still there! And I just can't get rid of you!"

Sherlock sighed, looking guilty. "I am really sorry that I left you, John. I miss you so terribly."

John didn't even realise he was crying until he felt a damp spot on the sheets beneath his palm. "I know. We'll be together soon. I promise."

He sat down there for hours, the dreadful silence barricading his ears. He had long since accepted the fact that he'd gone mad, and he was okay with it. What does it matter, if this little insanity made him happy for a few minutes and did no harm to anyone? But he'd been like this for too long. Suddenly, these brief moments were not enough. There was nothing left for him in this world anymore, and he was pretty sure that he'd only been nothing but a burden to the people around him—always worried about him, always checking up on him and making sure to avoid certain topics so as not to put him off.

Then there were people like Donovan. Anderson. The media. All the people who were stupid enough to believe that Richard Brook was real and that Sherlock Holmes was a fake. No. He'd seen personally Sherlock's brilliance and ingenuity. He would never, for a second, doubt the man who changed his life in so many ways and showed him that he was worth more than he first thought.

The sun had already set by the time John walked out of Sherlock's bedroom and went to his own. Calmly, he opened his bedside drawer and took out his gun. It had been a long time since he last had a reason to use it, and he shifted it between his palms so he could gain back the familiarity. He walked back down to the living room, giving it one last sweeping glance before he went out the front door and shut it behind him.

The walk to St. Bart's had been quicker than he thought it would be, and it wasn't long before he found himself at the roof, gazing down at the rushing cars and lights that had begun to litter all around. He imagined how Sherlock must have felt, standing at the same spot almost three years ago and knowing full well what awaited him below. A sort of ethereal peace surged in him, and he allowed himself to smile.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Sherlock said, appearing beside him. John nodded. "This is what I want," he answered.

"I died for you," he said and for a split second, John saw a flicker of real emotion in his eyes, but he knew that was impossible. "I died for you and in the end you'll just kill yourself."

John let out a broken sob. "Well, what am I supposed to do?!" he yelled. "I'm sick of this, sick of always having to pretend, sick—sick of you being gone."

Sherlock sighed, his gaze piercing through him. "John, I know this is a decision for you to make, but I strongly urge you to reconsider."

John let himself get lost in those eyes. He forced himself to conjure up tiny specks of the lights reflected in them, willed himself to see the row of lines on his slightly cracked lips, but no such detail would come. Another sob racked through him and there was an aching throb in his chest that made him clutch his heart. The air felt thin and his breaths were heavy. But the image of Sherlock that he imagined standing right in front of him did not show even a hint of worry on his face.

"You left me," he said, his voice quavering. "You killed yourself and you bloody left me. Why, Sherlock? Where did I go wrong?"

"John…"

"I love you," he whispered. "Please understand that I need to be with you."

Closing his eyes, John reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. He inhaled deeply and flicked off the safety.

"John."

Yes, I'm coming.

Steady hands brought the gun to his temple. He craned his neck up, aiming to see the heavens one last time.

"John!"

He's excited to see me too.

"John, stop this! Whatever you're doing, stop it now!"

He opened his eyes, harshly disoriented by the newfound desperation in the voice calling out to him. A sudden force brought him to the ground and wrenched the gun out of his grasp. With eyes wide, John struggled to get a look at his attacker.

"Mycroft?" He glared at the man towering over him, John's gun in his hand. He scrambled into a sitting position.

"What on earth was that, John? Do you really believe that he wanted this for you?" In his rage, throbbing veins appeared on Mycroft's forehead as he talked.

John remained silent, deliberately trying to avoid his gaze. He had been so close to finally reuniting with Sherlock. So close. If only he'd pulled the trigger a few seconds earlier… If only he… He…

"John, you must promise me not to do anything like this again." Mycroft said sternly.

"Tell me one reason why I should."

"This isn't what he would want you to do."

John stood up on his feet and clenched his fists. "Well he's dead now, isn't he?! What does it fucking matter?"

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if John were a petulant child. "Get a hold of yourself! This is not you, John!"

"He left me here to suffer. The bloody git got away from all of it and he left me."

"John, my brother loved you more than anything in this world and if you think you are honouring his death by defeating its purpose, then you are a stupid, insensitive git."

John, rendered speechless, kept glaring at the man. Air. He needed air. Some time alone. Away from all of this mess.

"Mycroft," he said, his voice full of venom. "Please leave."

Mycroft's hard gaze settled for a while before he let out a sigh of resignation. Tucking John's gun inside his suit jacket, he turned around and walked away. But just before he reached the door, he turned back. "I will be keeping you under maximum surveillance, John. I believe it is… necessary."

John spent a few more hours on that rooftop, revelling in the lights and the noise and the starry night sky. His projected Sherlock did not show up again, thankfully. He really needed to think without any distractions.

He thought about what Mycroft said, but didn't quite believe it. After all, if Sherlock really did love him that much, why kill himself at all? Why couldn't he have come to John and ask for help? Why couldn't he have just told him?

John dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and let out an agitated scream. He failed to save his best friend's life, and these were the repercussions of his actions. Painful as they may be, he had no choice but to face them with dignity.

He decided not to try to kill himself again, at least not for a few months, after which Mycroft will have tired of keeping tabs on him. Maybe then he could finally be with Sherlock—his partner, best friend, and love of his life, just as it should be.

That was why, two weeks later, when John was drinking tea and watching crappy television drama and he heard three knocks on the door and opened it to see none other than Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh, standing before him, his jaw dropped and he promptly shut the door in his face.