A/N: Hey there. Me + fever = this. I'm sorry. Feel free to review and tell me how shit this is. All mistakes are mine, image isn't mine, and cross-posted on AO3.

I never wanted to hurt you.

It was never my intention. I could never - but the soldier could. And I couldn't stop you any other way. There was no other choice.

It was the right thing to do. Everyone said so, afterwards. Called me a hero even.

You were hurting people, good people. Innocents. It was my moral obligation to stop you. I couldn't let you continue the way you were, so I did what I did.

But God, I'm sorry.

I still don't know why you were doing it. Others say that you had simply succumbed to the inevitable - they say that this apathy, this true indifference, was brewing beneath the surface. Waiting for the right catalyst to ignite the flame. They say the spider was that catalyst, and that you two were made for each other. Everyone says that this machine you became … they say you were showing your true colours in your last few days.

I don't know what to believe. All I know is that you were doing wrong.

But I'm not sure I did a right.

And this uncertainty - that's what slowly eats away at me. It's why I don't want to fall asleep ever again.

You must have had a reason for what you did. Right?

I don't know what to believe anymore. I thought I knew you. I thought what we had was the one thing I could count on, and I was wrong. So now, I can't even trust myself.

Nothing about this makes sense.

I'm still not sure what happened. I haven't felt anything since I put a bullet in your brain. The numbness is all I have now. Once, I had you.

Now it's the insomnia.

I didn't believe them, when they first told me. And you knew that would happen. You knew how I felt; you knew just how much faith I had in you. You knew just how willing I was to follow you down the rabbit hole.

And then you went where I could never go, and I still don't understand why.

Why?

They let me look at the autopsy. You weren't drugged, or tortured. Or at least, that's what the report says.

And yet you did what you did. What did Moriarty say to you? What did he do?

What made you do it?

I still can't believe it was all on you. Even after everything you did, after everything I did to stop you, I still can't convince myself that you weren't the man I knew you to be. I still can't convince myself that you didn't have a heart. And that's what kills me.

Everyone says I did good, but that's not what my gut keeps saying. My gut says that this is all wrong, that I was wrong.

The way you looked at me, right before I pulled the trigger. I'd thought you'd try to stop me. I'd thought you would have at least tried to convince me that it wasn't you doing all this. It wouldn't have been hard, you know. To convince me.

But you looked placidly at me, and your eyes remained devoid of anything human, and you said not a word. You just closed your eyes in dull acceptance, and I pulled the trigger.

You looked like you were welcoming your death. You looked like you were glad you were ending by my hand.

Everyone looks at me with awe, but also with pity. I don't care. All I care about is the fact that you're dead.

Now all that's left of you, the person, is your bones. You're six feet under.

You went too far down, old friend.

I'm sorry. I am. And I know you know that.

Knew. Knew that, past tense.

You didn't blame me. I just wish you had let me in - I wish you had let me help you, instead of forcing me to do what I did.

Yes, Sherlock, you've always known me, through and through. You knew my heart. You knew how I would react, you knew the only way I could react. So your actions were deliberate, and you forced me.

But it was still my choice, and for that ...

I've vowed to avenge you, you know. I'm going to find the shell of a man that did this to you, and I'm going to do much more than just kill him.

I miss you.

Goodbye, Sherlock. I hope it's better, wherever you are.