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He can still feel John's arms around him. Hours have passed since the hug, yet the feeling is clawing at his heart, his skin burning at the cold touch. As he walks away from the venue, the wind is erasing any trace of John's warmth, and with it, his love.
When he arrives at Baker Street, he closes the door behind him slowly and finds himself alone in his bedroom. He takes his time taking off his coat and his scarf. He exchanges his tuxedo for a white t-shirt and pants. He sits on his bed and crosses his legs, the box opened before him. He's turned off his phone. The door is locked. No one can bother him, and yet he wishes someone would. He knows they won't. No one worries about him anymore.
He stares at the needle, weighing the pros and the cons. John's voice in his head telling him not to do it, telling him how disappointed he'd be if he dared do it, makes him hesitate, but the images of his smile that day, of Mary's, of her growing appetite, everything that happened at the wedding. He's now sure that the case he had today, the Mayfly Man, was the last one he had with John. His John. The only person capable of loving him, of accepting him for who he is while still telling him how wrong he can be. John. The best man he's ever known, the cleverest, in his own way, the one person he can never forget.
His right hand is trembling. It does that now and then, he noticed. He ignores it. Doesn't even think about what it means. He shakes it but the tremor doesn't go away. So he picks up the needle and sink it in his arms, slowly, the poison in it running through his veins, and he exhales, finally breathes.