A/N Hello everybody! I decided to make a Johnlock oneshots book. I probably won't update this as much while I'm still writing The Broken Soul. But after that I might update more. This one isn't very long, but I hope you enjoy!
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Why did life have to be so cruel? Why did life have to take the good ones? Why did life take the good ones away from their family, friends and lover? Why did life take the beautiful ones? Why did life take the understanding, kind ones? Why did life take away the smart ones? Why did life take the honest ones? Why did life take the caring ones? Why did life take the lively ones? Why did life take the happy ones?
Why?
Ever since Sherlock... fell, John became broken inside. Every day a piece of himself died. He didn't cry anymore. He was pretty sure he dried his tear ducts up.
***
"Hi again Sherlock. Tomorrow will be the last day I visit you. You'll find out why tomorrow." John sighed. "I-I love you, Sherlock. I always have. Bye." John sniffed and walked back to 221b.
"I love you, too." Sherlock whispered from his spot in the trees.
***
When John woke the next day he went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. When he finished his tea he grabbed a piece of paper that said:
To my friends,
Thank you for everything you've done for me. You have all made my life a great one. I would not have wanted to spend my life with anybody else. Thank you Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft for being my friends. No, thank you for being my family. If you're reading this then I'm probably dead. I've probably committed suicide. I've gone to join Sherlock. I'm sorry.
Signed,
John Hamish Watson
He left the flat and headed to Sherlock's grave, making sure that he grabbed the note and his gun.
When John got to Sherlock's grave he sat in the cold snow.
"Hi Sherlock. I'm back. Just like every day." He set the note down and put a large rock on top of it. He pulled his gun out, "This time I'm not leaving. I'm coming to join you, Sherlock. I love you." John whispered as he brought the gun to his head with a shaky hand, and shot himself.
"John!" A deep voice yelled from somewhere over to John's left.
Sherlock ran over to where John lay, covered in his own blood. "John! John speak to me! Please John! Please." He was too late, John Watson was dead.
