Time Makes it Harder (JohnLock)

I Need It To Stop

(A/N Warning- the next few chapters are kinda dark)

 The next few days are filled with pain and agony for John. He cries constantly and is barely able to enter any room in the flat without thinking of Sherlock, having all the memories flood into his mind, making him wish he was there too. A hand to hold, lips to kiss and a body to rock him to sleep.

He sits in Sherlock's chair, trying to stop his shuddering breath after another panic attack. Still gasping for air, his hand clutches the armrest and his mind begins to clear.

"This needs to stop." He says quietly, even though there's no one there to hear him.

Another tear slips from his eyes and his parched mouth calls out for water, but he takes one look to the kitchen and his heart drops.

Squeezing his eyes shut he ignores the image of Sherlock's dead, cold body on the floor. He can tell that he is wasting away. He hasn't eaten in days, he hasn't slept since his night at the gravesite and the bags under his eyes are bigger than Irene Adler's collection of designer bags. His hands are folded in his lap, and his fingers are thinner than Sherlock's were. They are no longer hands that could type on a keyboard, no, he is far to shaky. Running those same fingers through his messy, tangled, greasy hair, he places it back on the armrest and sighs. Using those hands to push himself up, he slowly moves to the bedroom, his weight heavy with sleep, and slow with malnutrition. His fingers shake as he opens the bedside table drawer and pulls out a shiny, black hand pistol putting it in his jacket pocket.

Buttoning it up over the weapon he leaves the room and opens the door to the stairwell out of the building, the cold air biting at his face.

He can feel the cold metal of the gun tap against his chest as he walks toward the gravesite. His eyes are lowered to the ground, counting the cracks in the sidewalk as he walks, ignoring the blatant stares from the people who pass him.

Arriving at the dark metal gates, he walks gingerly into the site, and maneuvers his way to the gravestone.

Reaching inside his pocket, his hand closes around the grip of the pistol and slowly pulls it out of his jacket. His hand hangs loosely beside him as he stares at his reflection in the stone. His eyes close briefly and images flare in his head.

Smiling Sherlock, meeting at the train station, romantic dates, holding hands, making love, them being themselves, and happy with each other.

He opens his eyes and closes them again, seeing all that they could have been.

He sees their wedding, he sees a son, then a daughter, the 2 of them growing old together and he opens his eyes again, only to be met with the cold, dark tombstone.

"When will it stop?" He whispers, only to himself.