Text Messages Cannot Convey Feelings

Chapter Six

I think I understand now. You aren't ever coming back. JW

Sherlock was dead. Why wasn't John? It wasn't as though he had anything to live for.

Why hadn't the pain killed him?

God, why did this hurt so badly? He hadn't even known Sherlock that long.

A sudden thought struck him cold.

John scrolled through all the messages he had sent Sherlock since The Fall. the words he used in reference to his alleged fiancée caught his eye. Their. Their. Them. Their. Them. They're. Them. They. Not once had John said "She."

Then there was the matter of the imagined lunch. Had he not been able to imagine the woman he would be with, or had he not been able to imagine himself with a woman?

He supposed that would explain the "significant other" as opposed to "girlfriend."

Oh, shit.

John Hamish Watson was in love with a man, and a dead man at that.

He thought about the aforementioned dead man. His scent, the scent John had thought of when he tried to imagine a girlfriend. His pale skin, "so pale, it gleams." He had been describing Sherlock even then.

Those dark curls. Those glossy dark curls. John's fingertips tingled at the thought of running his hands through them.

Now that he had realized, the ache in John's chest burned so badly that he couldn't breathe.

His eyes flickered to the stairs. No. He couldn't. Could he?

Legs moving as if by their own accord, John gravitated up to his room. He sat on the bed, and stated at his desk. At one drawer in particular. He knew the contents exactly.

His old service revolver.

*

"Suicide is not the answer," he told himself. Trouble was, he didn't believe it.

Sherlock was dead. He wanted to be, too.

Goodbye, Sherlock. JW

John stood up, and crossed the room. After retrieving the gun, he sat back down again.

He turned it over and over in his hands. I want to die. Turn. Suicide is bad. Turn. I want to die. Turn. Suicide is bad. Turn.

I want to die.

Turn.

Was there an afterlife? If so, maybe he would see Sherlock there. If not, he wouldn't have to not see Sherlock here.

He hoped to god that there was.

Not goodbye. Hello again. JW

With that, John pressed the gun to his temple.