A/N:

And so we come to the end of the journey! My first completed Sherlock fic!

Thanks to all who have reviewed, but especially to vix82 for her input and support.

Hope you all enjoy!

Epilogue

Two days ago Captain John Watson MD, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, had attended the funeral of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had committed suicide by jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital 12 days ago. It seems that when faced with losing his identity and credibility as a consulting detective, Sherlock had reacted in a similar way to how John had just two years ago. He had succeeded where John had failed.

Now that John was alone, sitting in his armchair in the living room of 221b, he let his mask fall. The mask he had been wearing since before the funeral was one of controlled grief. People thought he was coping – that's what he wanted them to think.

That was, however, far from the truth. The truth was that when John had returned home after watching his friend jump to his death he had taken a clean scalpel and made a long slash across his chest. Now, twelve days on, John's body, arms and thighs were covered in cuts, mainly in sets; some spelling 'SHERLOCK' but mainly just his initials 'SH'.

Today, not even the sting of the blade and the flow of blood helped to ease the pain. That was why John now sat with his service weapon to his head, tears streaming down his face.

"I'm coming, Sherlock." He whispered as he pulled the trigger.

Instead of the loud bang of a gun shot all that came was the soft click of the hammer resetting itself. John tried again, nothing. He threw that gun across the room in frustration and sobbed.

Later, when he was all cried out, he went to retrieve the gun, intent on checking and reloading it. He removed the clip, it was empty. On either side of the case there was a sticker. One said "I'm sorry" and the other simply "Don't".

"You bastard!" John growled. This proved that Sherlock's suicide wasn't a snap desperate decision, he had planned it. (Actually, Sherlock had been watching his friend's reaction to his 'death' and had become increasingly worried. He had waited until he was sure John was asleep one night the previous week and snuck into the flat. He had emptied the clip and left his message, taking the spare ammo with him when he left.

John raked his hand through his hair. He thought back to how Mycroft had looked at Sherlock's funeral – the man, normally unflappable and aloof, had been broken. Now that Harry was sober (6 months!), he refused to put his sister through that. He put the gun down and picked up his phone dialling the number for Hannah. He knew he needed help if he was going to get through this.

Five minutes later, John hung up, stunned. Hannah Wells was dead; killed in a house fire last year. Determined now to not let the work that the dead woman had done be in vain, he swallowed his pride and made an appointment to see Ella as soon as possible.