Chapter One

The worst thing wasn't that he had died. The worst thing was that he had taken John with him.

It had been easy enough to find a drug dealer. It only took a few nights of hanging around streets that Lestrade had mentioned were 'infested' to come into contact with one. John still didn't know his last name, but he gave him the drugs and he didn't ask any questions. Cocaine was only a distraction from his 'mental trauma and depression', as his counsellor put it, so it wasn't that bad of an idea, really, and it wasn't as though John had begun aiming to die or something.

It wasn't as though he wouldn't end aiming to die, either.

Before Sherlock Holmes, his life had been a slow, dragging one, filled with solitude and resignation. John had only ever been stagnant before. Sherlock had changed that and cleared the water clogging his mind.

Now, after only five months of his little habit (Pathetic, really...), John was giving in, with the door locked on 221B Baker Street. Imagine if Mrs Hudson found him... after. There was no Sherlock now and there was no real reason to be there anymore, so why should he? It wasn't giving up – it was more like knowing when to stop.

Oddly enough, John had been absolutely fine until about two months of doggedly trailing to the gravestone. It was then that people had begun to notice that he was alright and leave him alone again. Finally, the visitors and mourners were gone. Mike Stamford had moved away to teach another lot of pupils. Lestrade was busy constantly and even Mrs Hudson wasn't worried about him anymore. It was easy to have a decent, pleasant conversation with a person, but it wasn't easy to be alone and have to deal with the real issues he faced. People were mere distractions, like the drugs.

Slowly, John entered the needle into his arm. It wasn't strange to him anymore, this sensation, and there were track marks around the needle. Obviously, this would always be Sherlock, Sherlock's habit and Sherlock's flaw, yet somehow that made it even better to John. He was killing himself with Sherlock's methods. He did, as Sherlock had known well all along, know his methods, anyway.

As expected, the rush came upon John fairly quickly and he settled back in his armchair, adjusting the union jack pillow that his laptop was balanced on, before posting a last post to his blog. This wasn't a sad event. This was a man attempting to be happy.

Title: Goodbye.

Readers,

I haven't been on this blog anywhere near as often lately, and I'm sure you all know why. Unfortunately, the death of Sherlock Holmes has affected me greatly, and I'm sure you can understand the difficulty I've been having adjusting to my everyday life again. To be honest, life was nowhere near 'everyday' with Sherlock; this blog is the proof.

I'm also sure you can understand my reasons for preferring death to life at this moment in time.

I don't know any of my readers, and so I hope that you won't be too upset or offended by this, because that's not what I want. I want to die now because there are no reasons to stay anymore. Not that my life isn't fine – I'm not poor or starving, and I've never been particularly unlucky in any way. I'm very average. This is purely because of the man I believe killed Sherlock, James Moriarty.

I have a few last messages, and as I know they'll be read very soon, I'm making them public.

Sally/Anderson – You know what I think of you two, as I stated it very clearly as you stood by and watched Sherlock being wheeled into a morgue. Don't blame yourselves though. I would love to tell you it's your entire fault, but it's not. You can't help being prejudiced and wanting to be methodical. You do work in a police station. You were merely contributing factors, I'm afraid.

Greg – Again, this is not your fault. I just don't see the point of staying alive when I'm like this. I've loved the time we've had together and I wish it could have been longer, but it wasn't and so this is what I've chosen. I wish I could have known you better, too. Keep working hard and don't do anything too stupid (says the man committing suicide).

Mrs Hudson – You will be one of the people I miss up in Heaven – or Hell, depending on what really happens. You were indispensable and a huge comfort when Sherlock was being, as per usual, a bastard. After I die, please be careful who you let 221B out to and make sure that you don't let the new owners repaper the walls. A rather strange combination, as you've commented on before, but also very memorable. I don't want people to forget him.

Molly – You liked him too, however cold he was, and so I know you'll understand this. I know you've been upset for the past few months too, although maybe not quite like this. You're a lovely girl, and I hope you manage to get over him. Don't follow my lead. I was never a good captain anyway.

Mike – I hope you're having more fun than you were here! God know I wasn't a very good companion after the Event.

Mycroft – I'm guessing you'll see this somehow, but please don't try and bring me back from the dead. I am the closest link you have left to your brother, but that doesn't mean I can stay like that. It sounds clichéd, but it's truthful. I've snapped, or, more accurately, shattered. How poetic of me. Thanks for all the help you gave me and Sherlock. Also, tell Anthea that she'll need glasses soon what with all the texting. Does she have contacts? She must do.

Finally, and I'm sorry about this one, but it had to be done, a quick note to Sherlock himself.

Sherlock: Did I ever mention what an annoying dick you are? This is ridiculous, what you've driven me too. Actually, now I come to think of it, I would have done this anyway had I note met you, so scrap that. This is how I was before you met me, slightly amplified but still acutely painful. You're dead, and as most people have commented, we follow each other everywhere. I never really worked that out. You followed me when Irene asked to see me when she was 'dead', but most of it was me running around with you. Does that make me a puppy dog or something, or does it make you a... what, a magnet? This is getting cheesier by the minute, so I should probably stop it. In the most amiable way possible, I love you. It sounded less strange in my head, so all the other people reading this, shut up. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Is there a 221B Baker Street in the afterlife? I hope so, because that's why I'm doing this. To stop it all. Either way, I suppose I'll be seeing you soon. Either that or I'll at least die thinking that.

This got dragged out and I didn't mean it to, but oh well. I'm dying, so I can afford to be slightly sentimental.

My will is already made, as I'm sure a few select people already know, so everything legal is sorted.

Also, I would like to be buried with the skull. Maybe I could talk to it when I was bored. What am I going on about? I sound like an Ancient Egyptian now – didn't they bury themselves with pets and things?

To conclude, I'm sorry to the readers that they have no influence over me now, and I'm sorry to everyone I'm leaving behind. It's what I want and I hope you'll respect that.

John H Watson

John had typed the post before he had injected himself with the drug, so it was only a matter of waiting for himself to start slipping away before he clicked the 'post' button.

All the usual feelings that came when he took the drug were there, and his mind blurred, but there was still a sense of boredom throughout it all and there was nothing John could do about that until the dark really began to set in.

As he died, John gazed up at the ceiling in contented amusement. When had the world ever looked like this before?

A/N - Oh dear, I appear to be writing even more angst than usual, probably due to my increasingly depressed mood. I'm 14 and I suffer from depression, so no wonder I'm good at getting into this kind of fic. I hope you enjoyed this one, and yes, it's going to be continued. I didn't mean it to be more than one chapter, but... this always happens with me :) Please review and tell me what you think!

Jess