Love hurts. Putting them first, always caring about them, it's just difficult. It's even harder when they're not there.
Most people lose the one they love after a lifetime together, and although the pain is huge they can take comfort in the life they had. But for some people it's not like that. They leave before you can even express the love you feel. Before they can know how much you care. You spend days or weeks or months thinking about what went wrong, why did it happen? It consumes your every thought, hindering everything you do.
The worst thing is that you don't feel like you can talk to anyone about it. Because how does it feel right to be so sad, to miss them so much and to not be able to tell them. How is it okay for you to feel like that when you could have stopped them leaving. But you just weren't enough.
That is what went through John's head when his therapist asked him the same question she always did, "how are you doing today John?"
What could he say? I haven't left my bed in a week because my best friend isn't here anymore. Because he was my everything and now he can't be.
He watched her as she nodded and wrote a note down.
"Why are you here today?
He looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears.
"You know why"
She looked at him and sighed, "you know how this works. It only works if you let it."
He looked down and picked off the scab that had formed on his knuckle when sadness went to anger and there was no one there to stop him.
"Please don't make me say it."
His voice cracked and his hand briefly covered his eyes.
"Sherlock, my best friend, my Sherlock, is dead."
He bit his lip, holding back the tears as much as he could.
"I can't do this."
He walked out of that house and sat in his car. He broke down. Tears flooding down his face. "Why Sherlock? Why?"
He managed to make his way to 221B without breaking down again. He walked up the stairs, drowning out Mrs Hudson's caring words. He went straight to Sherlock's room and lay on his bed alongside his coat. He was meant to give it to them, to bury him in. But he wanted it more than anything. He hugged it to his body, "oh why Sherlock? Why?"
John had spiralled. He didn't do anything, he just sat there for weeks. Mrs Hudson hadn't seen him for weeks. He stayed in his room, and let his coffee go cold and the room get dusty.
Then came the day. The day he had to say goodbye forever. He went to the church and sat and stared blankly at the coffin. He didn't stay for the food. He couldn't face everyone knowing they didn't truly understand.
John returned to the flat, he knew it couldn't be home anymore. He packed his things, and left the rest of the flat as Sherlock had left it. He lay the coat neatly on his bed and slipped a note into the pocket.
I'm sorry. I love you.
He turned the collar up, chuckling to himself, "you forgot to turn your collar up"
When Mrs Hudson returned home, a key had been dropped through the letter box. He was gone.
2 years later Sherlock returned to Baker Street. He found it empty and dusty. He went into his room and found the jacket layed on the bed. He put it on and it hugged him like he belonged in it.
He adjusted the collar and stuck his hands in the pockets. A piece of paper scraped him skin.
I'm sorry. I love you.
He read it. And suddenly he realised the impact of what he had done. John had loved him too and then he had left him. He'd blamed himself for it. And it wasn't true. There was no need for any of it, not in John's eyes. Sherlock had broken his heart 2 years ago when he died and again just a few hours ago when he came alive.
"Why would you do that Sherlock? Why would you do that to me?" was the last thing he heard from John and now he realised just what it meant.