Chapter 3:

And Sherlock never did. He never forgave the man that failed him after Sherlock had trusted him. How could he? He had come so far, done so much, and for what? His Doctor was dead! He had sat in his armchair, facing the corner of the sofa that Sherlock used to curl up in, and he blew his own bloody brains out!

Sherlock had known it was a possibility. Of course he had known. John had been contemplating suicide before he had hobbled into St. Bart's behind Mike Stamford and changed Sherlock's life forever, bringing with him tea, biscuits, laughter, and friendship.

Sentiment! Useless! Still, Sherlock couldn't think around it. It kept invading his brain, reprograming his mind to remind him of John's high-pitched laughter, of his deep ocean eyes, of his generous complements, of his warmth, and of his endless loyalty.

Sherlock knew that his John had been willing to follow him anywhere, and he had known that death would be no different. He had trusted his brother to protect him when he could not do so himself. That had been a mistake of egregious proportions.

Mycroft was busy getting ready to announce Sherlock's faux suicide to the public. That would not be necessary though. It would be real soon enough.

Sherlock did not even go back to 221B before he went onto the roof of St. Bart's. He saw no reason to. Without his blogger, it wasn't really home to him anyway.

As Sherlock moved to step onto the edge of the roof, he couldn't help but compare it to Romeo and Juliet: one pretends to die and the other kills himself out of grief before the first awakens to find the plan has gone awry and also commits suicide. John would have found the similarities humorous. The thought nearly caused Sherlock to smile.

This was not due to love lost. Oh no. Sherlock's reasoning was different. Weakness was the first. John had shown him another world. A world without John would be cold and horrible. Not even cocaine and nicotine, Sherlock's oldest friends, could fill the cracks that John had repaired anymore. Sherlock had known true happiness, and the numbness and calm that his addictions had brought would not be enough anymore. Sherlock's other reason was a bit more noble, he thought.

John had never faltered, never questioned. He had believed in and stood by Sherlock through everything. John never would have turned from Sherlock if and when he called.

Lestrade had made Mycroft a copy of John's note when his brother had asked for it. He had given it to Sherlock, and as the Consulting Detective readied himself to fall once again, he recalled one of the final lines of John's note.

"I would have followed him anywhere, Greg, and I know in my heart that he would have done the same for me."

John was right, of course. He had already died for John once. He would do it again. He wasn't going to leave his doctor alone. It was Sherlock's turn to follow him, because he had been so alone before, and he owned John Watson so much.

His phone buzzed, and a dozen or so black cars all came speeding down the street with a swiftness that was almost impressive. Sherlock ignored them, took his phone from his pocket, threw it to the ground behind him, spread his arms, and fell.

Surely the world could do with one less proper genius.

How was it? I am pretty proud of it. If there are any mistakes, please let me know. I like to fix those. I hope I didn't make you too sad!

~Elizabeth