John Watson was in pain, not physical pain, though at his age he did have a few aches here and there. No, this pain went much deeper, through to his very soul.
The reason for it was simple; Sherlock was gone, this time for real and forever. His death had come unexpectedly, one moment he was excited about the upcoming honey harvest and the next he was gone. John had brought him his tea and found him slumped in his chair. He had tried to revive him but it was too late he was gone.
Natural causes they said, but John suspected that a lifetime of drug use, little or no sleep and alternating between eating and starving himself was more likely to be at least partly to blame. He supposed that he was lucky that they had had so much time together, but that did nothing to take away the guilt and the ‘what if’s’ that his mind plagued him with. If only he had not gone to make the tea, Sherlock would not have been alone; he might have saved him even though in his heart he knew that it probably wasn't true. Nothing Mycroft, Molly, or Lestrade could say made him feel any better. The funeral had all passed by in a blur, taken care of by Mycroft. Now he was all alone.
He sat in the fading light of their living room a tear rolling down his cheek as he looked at the faded photograph of them on their wedding day. Hard to believe he would never again hear that gorgeous baritone whisper in his ear, that even after 30 odd years could still send a tingle though his body. He couldn’t bear the thought of never again seeing the man who had become so much a part of him. That he would never hold him, kiss him or make love with him ever again.
His gun was on the table beside him. He tucked the photo into the pocket of his shirt, wiping his eyes; he picked up the gun, its weight familiar in his hands. He removed the safety catch and checked the gun was loaded.
Tears ran down his face as he placed the muzzle of the gun in his mouth. His last thought as he pulled the trigger was ‘Wait for me Sherlock, I’m coming..’.