Rainy days, Rainy nights...

Part 1

John sat uncomfortably in his chair staring at Sherlock's. The vacant seat had his scarf sprawled across, lifeless with no body. The dull black and blue was the only source of color in johns life. There were empty beer bottles scattered throughout the room. The only bottle which held beer was in johns hand, half empty. He took one large chug of the liquid and slammed the bottle on the ground, the noise of the shattered glass was so loud that it woke Ms. Hudson.

"John!" She yelled from her room, irritated with the commotion.

"Shut it Ms. Hudson!"

Ms. Hudson knew why john was upset, and she left him be for the night.

It had been 5 months since his death.

John sighed and got up from his chair, he walked through the room and looked at every item that sat in the lonely flat. Billy the skull sat on the mantle, and a mirror showed John his deathly face. He hadn't shaved in months, he had a large beard on his jaw, his eyes were blood shot and his eyes sulked. his hair was a mess, for he hadn't washed in a while too. He didn't leave his house, he didn't get his mail, he didn't do anything public. To London, John Watson died along side Sherlock Holmes.

John felt a lump in his throat as he pictured Sherlock's bloody face and mangled body lying on the side walk, the image of his dear friend, was etched in his brain. He couldn't shake the picture, it consumed his every waking moment. Beer was the only thing to drown his thoughts. The image was still there, but it was blurred.

Wiping away tears of anger and sadness, he huffed back to the fridge to get more beer. He pulled out two large bottles and dragged his feet back to his chair. As he opened the bottle, he heard a knock at the door.

"Go away.." he said

The knock was louder this time

"Didn't you bloody hear me? Go away!" He shouted

"John, come out of there now." It was Greg Lestrade's voice

"Fuck you Greg" John hissed.

Greg fell silent for a moment. Then spoke,

"His death effects more people than just you, you know. Its effected me, molly, hell, even Anderson is in a state of depression over it." He said with a sigh.

John clenched his fists.

"My demand still stands Greg, Go away." John said.

Greg grunted and kicked the door, then left the complex.

John felt tears burning in his eyes, he didn't want to cry, his pride didn't allow it, but as he thought of Sherlock's face again, he felt hot tears stream down his face. They landed on his hands and feet, he felt the sticky tears between his fingers. He set the bottle down, struggling to gain enough strength to get out of the chair, when he finally got up, he headed straight towards his bedroom, he stood in front of his closed door and sighed.

"This is it." he whispered.

He turned around to look at the messy flat, as if to have one last look. He turned back and pushed the door open. John's bedroom was surprisingly empty, there was a bed, a desk, a drawer and a dresser. but all very well kept.

He dragged his feet towards the drawer that sat next to his bed, he opened the first drawer, a couple pieces of paper and a pen, he took them out.

This is my note, it said

Putting the paper down on the drawers top, he opened the second. There lay a small hand-gun.

His hand hovered over the gun, waiting to see if something would happen, when nothing occurred he grabbed it, it was cold and had the Ora of dread.

He placed the gun in both of his hands, he stared at it. His vision wasn't that well due to the tears, they fell softly onto the metal.

With an aggravated sigh he pointed the gun at his temple, laying his finger lightly on the trigger.

1...2...3! he took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.