It's weird, isn't it? Being in love. That feeling when you see someone and everything is exaggerated. Seeing every single part of them, loving their quirks and feeling like you would do anything for them. Being with them makes you feel physically lighter, floating through life together. Even if they don't feel the same as you do, you just can't help but smile.

John Watson felt like this once. Once upon a time when he was with the one named Sherlock. John sat in 221b Baker Street staring blankly at the wall. It had been three years since Sherlock had vanished from existence, three years since the funeral and the visible grief. To everyone outside John looked healthy. Happy. John knew that he wasn't. He would occasionally pick up a shift at the surgery but Sherlock's will left nearly everything to him, meaning that he didn't really have to work, but did it to break the monotony. When not at work or out to maintain the pretence, John sat. He did nothing but just sit and think. When it got late, he would slowly get up and go to Sherlock's room and without moving anything unnecessarily, slip into his bed, hoping that Sherlock would turn up miraculously, even if it was just to berate him for being so quintessentially human….

Life just seemed so boring and dull without the eccentricities of Sherlock, even though his life was peaceful now John wanted the excitement back! John wanted everything about Sherlock back. His patronisations, his scarf, his violin playing, his ranting, everything. John felt like a part of his life had disappeared, been brutally torn out and stomped on. John felt so heavy. Most people expected him to be back to normal within a few months but how does one move on with their life when their reason for living dies? Why get up in the morning, just to see the empty silence hanging about in the flat? Mornings are the hardest John thought. Sleepily after dreaming of Sherlock the lines between dreaming and reality were the most blurred, John still makes two cups of coffee, even now he cries.

He sometimes sends him texts. Often about his feelings, sometimes just the words "I love and miss you. –JW" He still hopes Sherlock can read them, even when the error message comes back through. John feels so alone; no-one understands him sometimes. Lestrade and Molly have their own happy lives now; John can't intrude with his dreary obsession over the past. Mrs Hudson is gone, died of a heart attack about a year ago. John slowly looks around the flat, feeling the silence as if it was tangible, pressing down on him.

John hasn't spoken to Mycroft since.

John was sitting as usual, slowly letting the tears fall on one ordinary Sunday afternoon when he finally decided. He had been letting the slow ebb of the TV lull him back into unrestful sleep when he saw it.
"It has been three years since the suicide of the fake Reichenbach genius, Sherlock Holmes. In a special report we shall see….."
John zoned out as soon as he heard the name. He was fed up with the reminders, tired of the petty sympathies of acquaintances that were blissfully ignorant of John's true pain, exhausted with the pain of living. Of course, he was already prepared. He had written the note months ago, waiting for that thing, the thing that would tip him over the edge. This slander of Sherlock's name so long after was that thing, the catalyst. John slowly moved to the kitchen cabinet, opened one of the drawers and pulled out the two things he would need. The note and the gun.

John breathed in and out deeply, not to calm himself but to attempt to enjoy the inherent feeling of breathing. John was steady and resolute as he sat down in his chair, almost excited to finally be back with Sherlock. John took off the safety, pressed the gun into his right temple, still filling his lungs with precious air, and started to think of Sherlock. Their first case, the fights, the laughs, those blooming cheekbones, shooting the wall, forgetting the milk and of course, those deep blue eyes. John closed his eyes and breathed "I believed in you" into the darkness.

Silence.