First of all, let me apologize for the length at which my inactivity ran. I had to... deal with issues with family not to mention the fact that I had no certain internet all Spring Break; I actually just got it turned on today. I had to write all of my updates on my phone (thank god for my non-internet writing app or I would have gone mad).

This one-shot is my apology. I wrote it with nonchalance at first while writing the St. Patrick's day fanfic as well as the update for Muse (Both that will be updated today or super early tomorrow... maybe 1am). I'm really not sure how I feel about this, but since it's roughly 15000 words, I'm kind of proud. When I first typed it out, it was only 2000 words but as I added more and more, it got longer. To be honest, I could probably continue working on it to at least 20000 words, but I chose to stop. My 'John Watson' which is what I refer my best friend as since she is my John to me (Sherlock to her), was getting mindblown over how detailed I was writing this in her perspective.

I will warn you, it is metaphor heavy. I love metaphors since I write poetry way to much for my liking.

Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this. I will update Muse and post the first chapter of the late late late St. Patrick's in a few hours since I have homework to attend to.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in the slightest.

Fingering the army issue SIG Sauer P226 standard at my side, I considered the possibility that the one miracle that could cease this assertion could appear. It was minuscule yet I knew that the thought on its own had set a few things unto motion. The slim hope that quivered in my heart reached up, yearning for that to occur. It thrived briefly before falling at my condescending denials, forcing it down to a dark, secluded corner. It wanted to stop me, to keep me suffering but I had planned this perfectly and no perfect a time could cease the moment. I will go through with this, I will. Nobody will stop me, as if anybody has already.

"I know this may appear absurd, even I am repulsed from asking this, but if you hated being around human emotion and idiocy, why don't you just-"

"Kill myself?" You scoffed, rolling your eyes as if I was joking. You thought I was, then again I never ask these sort of questions so I can see why. I don't even comprehend why I asked it, just a thought that made itself known to the person of question. With that said, as the message relayed back to me in full force, I realized just how heartless I appeared, how uncharacteristically uncaring I must have made myself known for that brief moment and I could feel my face contort into one of disgust.

"I didn't mean it like that-"

"Oh no, you meant assassinating myself in a nice way?" You retorted in a rhetorical tone as you shook your head in annoyance and yet... I could see the faint reflection of wonder of the question as if you were now contradicting yourself as to why, "No John, I can see why you have asked the question. I have even mulled over the topic myself" you admitted before continuing, "but now that I fancy the thought, I suppose it is to say I'm a coward. Among the apathy I carry in my enclosed heart and the ghostly apparitions of a sociopath, I know that I couldn't go through with it. This body is only extra limbs I'd rather not associate with and that in Itself hinders my mind from allowing the default action.

"Cowardice would grip me by my shoulders and steer me away from the metaphorical scythe. I may seem stoic to you John, but I do have a fear that isn't unorthodox. Death. The potential of the unknown is what creates the wall of my eventual suicide along with my own natural decease."

Your face was sullen, lacking your usual smirk and mocking stare. It was instead placed with a feel of yearning and shadows that I familiarized myself with easily. The look of just thinking about the possibilities and the results, but not going through with it because of idle terror of the end. I recognized it all too easily and fear gripped my limbs as you went through it yourself, "Sherlock-"

Before I uttered a word, the face was gone. That twitch of true emotion was once again buried in your usual demeanor. Your annoying smirk was plastered on your face as you turned away from the window and back at me. I wasn't a fool though, I could tell you were faking it; eyes encasing the same dark look that only a man that has experienced the same could understand. It was an act that you placed for me.

"Besides, how would I possibly get my amazing mind you find yourself fond with to shut up for me to reminisce before following through?"

That was the few times you left yourself utterly exposed for myself to contradict with what I have so far seen. Up to that moment, I was sure I knew you, but I was wrong. I was horribly off and that is what eventually cost me your own life. The solitude thought that assured me you would be fine when I returned. Wrong. All wrong.

I never knew you, not really. I though thought I did, but I never fully grasped onto that mind of yours. Threads perhaps latched onto my finger tips ever so briefly, but that was as close as I got to your true persona. What's even more mind boggling is even if I actually took hold of a thread worth looking into deeper, you would throw me for a loop so that the thin red string that might have held actual human emotion was nothing more than a dull, translucent piece of line that held nothing more than any other.

I constantly have these little remnants of rationality plague my mind on the occasional basis, but they never stay long. I suppose you could say I don't really hold much onto reality, it being useless. I never fully treasured what you were to me until you were gone. You were not something that weakened me at first, just a friend that aided my rehabilitation. You strengthened my crumbling walls and fixed my broken bones. In more ways than one, you were much the outer layering of my heart that kept me from caving in upon myself.

A shell whose mind and shallow persecutions repaired. I wasn't the only one that noticed this verdict; Lestrade and the others express it as well in their faces. The most noticeable was our very own landlady and was one of the few people that hadn't believed the incorrect rumors on the paper, but then again, that was because she had known you personally. I suppose the same can be said for the other blokes that make sure I'm still living... still breathing... still not on the same roof top that you accompanied when you fell from your throne in one, slow leap.

I have been tempted I will admit, always have been since the first week. The building in which you stood upon always mocked me when I passed by. It was like a demon and I was close to succumbing to its taunts. I could have been up there, could have been standing on the ledge, watching the millions of people pass through London, but I wasn't. No... If anything, that is what people expected me to do. They thought that if I were to die, following the detectives footsteps would be my method.

I suppose it would have been easier, but the noise of the bustling city would ruin everything. It would only emphasize my loneliness and I would be down on that same bench I sat on before with my head in my hands because I wouldn't be able to do it. At least this method of dying was much more appropriate for my case. The men in arms would call me weak, call me an fool, but they hadn't witnessed what what I had. They hadn't seen what I did. They didn't do anything of the sort so it didn't matter.

It still did to some though...

Mrs. Hudson, for one, was already a worry wart with all the check-ups she performs on a daily basis. Making sure I'm eating, that I sleep, that that I haven't... killed myself. She does it so often that I started to feel much more sentiment for the woman. No wonder you loved her like your own surrogate mother; she was the sweetest, most caring lady of all I have met.

But then again, that little twinge of disposition was what ended you. Your respect for Lestrade, your love for Mrs. Hudson, and lastly, your newly found friendship with myself; it was all a flaw that purposely caused death's grim reaper reaper to materialize with his scythe ready to slice at your red thread.

My selfish mind began to wonder what it would have been like had I not met you, but it seems the outcomes of that link was worth than now. You would still be the only consulting detective in the world I suppose but you would be lonely. You would have no... friends like you do now. Addicted to drugs and killing yourself with all your neglect... you would not have lasted long.

I, on the other hand, would have done this sooner for one, as most soldiers do. Civilization would have inwardly killed me from the lack of blood I was used to seeing as common. I would have retrieved further into my head and would have, without a single hair of doubt, pulled the trigger. Living up to my name as they say.

'Trigger finger' that's what I was called back in the war path. I was known by trigger finger because no matter the degree of surprise an attack would have, my gun would. always be ready, always be full of bullets to plant in the head of the attackers. My friends used to mess with me over the name, an army doctor that could shoot more accurately and efficiently than most of the best soldiers. I was trained to do this, be more efficient than those around me so I wouldn't have to rely on them in the heat of battle. A accurate aim with a pressure measured index finger was the key to my success as a soldier; not to mention my stealth and fluency in movement. They all aided my call of one of the best. This, of course, coursed respect and a quiver of fear to run through the veins of others. I wasn't exactly an outcast, but few people expected me to snap.

"Would you have remained there on the war zone?" Your smooth baritone voice questioned me as I eyed my tea, drinking it in mild content. Well, it was content. At this preposition, it changed to one of concern, my eyes shifting ever so slightly to look up to your looming shadow.

"Hmm? What are you on about now?" I replied, watching as you stooped in front of me, eyes open on my own but showing nothing, betraying nothing. They were veiled, but I could see the curtains open ever so slightly as the seconds were driven to a more permanent destination.

You looked slightly antsy to be honest, your voice shook and your pupils were in slight dilation. The hands that rested on my knees were shaking violently and I could tell you were probably going through one of the many phases of withdrawals. This was only the first few, but they would only get worse. At this moment, it was progressively making your thinking harder. You needed to turn to somebody to latch to.

You turned to me. You didn't leave to your room or leave the flat altogether. You remained and entrusted myself to help you. Now it was my turn to relay the sustenance needed.

Laying my hands on yours in a comforting gesture, I felt your tremors falter slightly, "What were you saying Sherlock?"

Your voice barely shook but it was still evident, "if you hadn't been injured and sent home on leave, would you have remained there with the blood and bodies? The ones you tried to save and the ones you failed to resume?"

"I... I would still be there then. Still fighting a pointless war and still shooting the same people I suppose." It was a simple response, but it was one I could tell you did not want to hear.

"Why? Why would you remain in a place that has stripped away your past in all actuality? It makes no sense, none at all," your shivers were almost gone now, mere curiosity replacing your ice blue gaze.

"Because it's the only place I'm certain I fit in," I whispered, averting my eyes briefly, "to most people, danger is the bullet everybody tries to avoid, but for me? I look for that bullet and relish the adrenaline it gives. As much as I would love to return to some resemblance of normal, my mind is too screwed up by the bloody scenes I have seen, metaphorically and literally."

"You've seen a lot of deaths..." you mused aloud, your withdrawal phase gone from sight. Almost.

"Yes, more than I could count, but enough to last a lifetime."

"Nevertheless," you began, "you would still see more? You would still jump in front of that bullet."

A nod, "yes. I would. For this country, for my family and friends, for myself."

"Even if you had met myself before then?"

I looked up and noticed the glimmer of fear that resounded in your eyes. It was faint, almost unnoticeable. Blimey, even I wouldn't have noticed it had I not known you for as long as I did. It was the look of a child, alone and tired of it. Someone that was used to ones company that the mere thought of it being stripped away frightened them to the bone.

I smiled and patted your hand, "no. I suppose had I known you I wouldn't have done it. Who would look after you and your ridiculous habits?"

You blinked and a chuckle escaped your turned up lips, "I don't need anybody to look after me."

Laughing with you, I stood, "Yeah yeah. Keep telling that to yourself mate and maybe one day you will believe it"

You relied on my attention after that; just knowing i was there when called upon. You began to let my mere presence leak into your heart, cracked to pieces. I was like a glue that fixed you up. You repaid that act eventually, though It was not the way I expected it to be shown.

Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side. A propensity of sorts that wormed its thorny vines around your indifferent mind and heart. It was only a saying, no thicker than water, but nonetheless you thrived on It because it was the only thing you were certain was true. Your entire being was built on the verdict that no emotional feeling could aid in the hopes of anything; that no tree can efficiently grow in love.

It's funny really how even though you swore you were a sociopath, you never really were. Deranged personalities didn't decorate your idiosyncrasies nor did criminal defects. No, you were never a true 'sociopath' but you clung to it because it was a title that seemed to translate well to those you wanted to refrain from. Antisocial or perhaps awkward fit you more than a fake and murderer. You didn't show that to me until later, while we were at the flat awaiting Lestrade to arrive with justice heavily balanced on his shoulders.

The poor man. He never wanted to do that; putting you behind bars. He knew as well as I that you were not a kidnapper, murderer, psychopath. It wasn't you but who was going to believe us? It didn't help that as you stood on the roof top the next morning, you just recited these words back at me. You repeated the harmful words and even though they were about you, they were like knives to my heart. You actually believed them and that was what made me weak.

Why you ask? You were the strong one; the one that allowed no indifferent remark to taint your mind. Strong-spirited and utterly loyal despite what you said. You always assigned me to being loyal, kind, compassionate, effective, and utterly fascinating but in all honesty, that was you. It was you all over, but you never believed praise, only criticism. You never showed it but I knew that gun was shooting you over and over with every word. Your end came soon after.

"I'm a fake." Deadpanned misery echoed through the worthless cellphone. It was useless. I didn't want to hear your grainy voice, but your smooth baritone voice instead.

"Sherlock-"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock," I interjected, shaking my head as vicious tears appeared before my eyes in a haze, "Shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met - you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever," your empty voice replied back, lost.

"You could," I spoke back quickly, wanting so hard to just go over to you and hug you. I wanted to pull you away from that ledge, throw away that blasted phone that couldn't hold a charge worth a damn, but I couldn't. I couldn't do that and it was killing me; as a friend, and as a man who was raised and taught to help people in need.

"Nobody can hold the same skills and talents that your mind conjured. You are brilliant, extraordinary even, and nothing can tell me otherwise."

"John-"

"No, you listen to me Sherlock," I bit in, tears falling slowly, "Do you have any idea how much you mean to Mrs. Hudson, to Lestrade, to me? You are the closest friend that I could have maintained and-and I don't honestly have a clue as to what I would do without you. Your amazing deductions and fantastic assertions that nobody could compare to; can you see that you are clever, but not only that, no, you are probably the best man I could have met in this damn lifetime?"

Silence was over the phone, "I... No, I couldn't have done that. This entire friendship? It was a lie, a scam to experiment with. We never held anything more than flatmates. Although I thank you for all the... life-threatening scenarios you saved me from, you were nothing," his voice broke but he hid it with a cough, "-nothing to me. Just another fool that can't tell the difference between true cleverness and just research.'

I was stunned, "Then how do you explain my sister? There was no way you could research her. You even didn't know it was a she to begin with! How can you explain that to be research, Sherlock? If you had researched my life in its entirely, you would have known that it was my sister. Nobody even posts if a person bloody drinks online! How can you deny your genius?"

"A shot in the dark?" You responded meekly.

"No," I shook my head, "You are wrong. Just... come down off that roof will you? Please, just come back to the flat and we can talk-"

"I can't John."

Frustration was leaking into my response, "Why not?"

Even through the phone, I could hear the thickness of your tone and knew you were crying. I knew you were showing weakness and you were trying not to present it.

"I...I have to do this. To clear your name. I could care less about my own, but I don't want you to suffer for my ignorance, John, I never did. So perhaps I will do this as my final act. What do they call it John? A final vow?"

"No..."

"Please, will you do this for me?"

My voice broke, 'Do what?"

"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

His voice was so shaky, so unsure. I looked up to his form and noticed that his arm was extended and reached back with my own. We were so close, so close to touching, but we were so far.

"Leave a note when?"

Finality, 'Goodbye, John."

That was your goodbye... quick, resolute. It was hastened, but nonetheless it still hurt as if you stabbed me in my own heart. A knife of cold misery into a murky heart of despair, severing my lifeline from your form.

My case would be different for two reasons. For one, I didn't want anybody to see me do this. I didn't want a witness for mine. The second would be that I was selfish. I didn't want to see tears fall from the unlucky viewer. Besides, death is meant to be silent.

Unlike your... fall, I will have nobody to stop me. Our land lady is gone to visit family and Lestrade is working on the paperwork for a recent case. You would have liked it. A murder of an elderly woman, but it was such a clean scene that the team was stumped (as always you would say), but the cause of death was obviously a shot to the head. Blood was around the cranium, but there was also blunt force trauma as well. Multiple influences of death that the simple-minded forensic team couldn't contribute. It was solved... eventually with my help, and a little of Mycroft's, but it wasn't the same. Not without you and your smirk that just shouted "you are all idiots to not see what Is in front of you".

As I looked at the gun once more, I settled it on the desk. Doubt was beginning to course through my veins and arteries but so was adrenaline and want. It was a battle, the demons and angels capsizing for dominance.

Tilting my head forward, I rested my face in my hands. I was broken, damn you, I was fractured and it was because of you. Why did you have to leave? It makes no sense! No logical excuse could be given to me for it to be believable. I didn't see it. You didn't even seem the type to do it, not in the slightest and if it did occur, it wouldn't be a... fall. No, it would be a drug overdose or maybe an experiment gone wrong but not a leap of bloody faith. That's not you, but who was going to believe me at this point?

Even I don't believe myself, trust even less.

A wave of sadness brushed into me and I held no walls to stop it. It washed over my crumpled form like a cold, numbing shower that only reaped happiness. The only evidence that the exchange occurred, happiness for sadness, was the small trickle of anguish and utter dysphoria.

When I stop and think about it, I suppose we are all a vase of some sort and your death caused cracks in our surface. The pretty porcelain walls that adorned in floral scenes of our encounters with you; it was all starting to crack. It was practically a mummy's curse, but it was the opposite as well. We never regretted knowing you, I still don't.

The crevices already stopped for Mrs. Hudson, something I am eternally grateful for. Seeing her weeping when I walk in without you at my side was enough to make a grown man, soldier since his teens, cringe. It was horrible Sherlock, especially since I knew you wouldn't be coming back, but it eventually passed like a fresh wave. She accepted it the hardest, but she was still the one who was able to swallow the verdict as a whole and still see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Same with Lestrade, though his acceptance resulted in a brief exploit of drugs that I had to retrieve. He got back into smoking and none of that idle splurge. No, it was a full rehabilitation process that was only pushed away because of my personal visit to him. He was a mess, looked like he wanted to practically do the same thing you did... do the same thing I'm doing. He divorced his new wife, actually she divorced him, but that wasn't as hard a hit as your visit to death's door. Eventually, albeit slowly, I got him back; but it was luck. Even then I was untrustworthy of his ability to refrain from the substance. Soon enough though, the light of reality shined on him as well.

Last was myself.

There's a curse with serving your country. You are specially trained to be ready for any scenario. You recover the quickest, diagnose the reality check of the situation the most effectively. It was a maneuver of sorts that was always used. I found it a plus for the longest time until that day. That was the only enactment that I didn't want that to happen. I didn't need my mind rephrasing the entire scene in a relatively morbid and depressing voice. I didn't need it, but it happened anyway. I was the first to understand, but I was the last to cope with it.

A dry laugh crawled it's way up my throat and out into the empty, dust-filled room. Yes, coping. This was how I was doing so. I was going to use this weapon that was aimed and fired in war to bring an end to my truancy as your friend. Not like anybody will care if I'm gone anyways... right?

God no. I'm not that selfless. I know I will hurt people and that is what's causing me to doubt myself now. I'm a doctor; someone who aids in the recovery of victims, not one who influences the opposite. I say this yet here I sit, poised for a fatal blow. People will be sad and it will be the same exact people that I had to help once you passed. It will be those same people but I will not be there to help them through it this time. I will be gone to god knows where.

Still, I'm sure they would understand. They might be sad for a while, but they will come to see why I did it. At least, one can hope.

I felt the same rough laughter choke out of my throat. Yeah, hope. I saw how that helped me. Let's just say I don't 'hope' for too many things nowadays.

Shaking my head in my now drenched palms, I felt a small smile spread on my face.

I will be with him. I will and no one will stop that.

Licking my dry, chapped lips to some degree of life, I could feel a tear make its way to my eye, the familiar burning sensation accompanying it. It was going to be another onslaught of tears but this one wouldn't be a mere tributary of tears, oh no, this was more like a dam filled to the brim. I could feel a water fall brewing but ignored it to some contempt. Well, then again, I suppose ignore is too strong a word. The truth was that I didn't really care to break off the action. I didn't stop them from descending. I didn't cease the river that cascaded down my cheeks nor did I make any desistance to wipe them away from view. Nobody would see them anyway; the one person that could already pulled away from this lifetime.

I wonder if Mycroft is watching, his many meticulous cameras that have been situated throughout this dreary flat. At first they were for Sherlock and I, both as a team, not separately. Once for a consulting detective and his blogger. Now? Now they were only for me, to make sure I didn't do anything stupid. Now they were only for the meek, lonely blogger who had nothing to write without his thrilling detective.

What would Mycroft say right now? Would he be interested or indifferent? Would he even care?

No, that's a stupid question. Of course he would care, even I wasn't a fool. Perhaps had I been in this situation a year ago ago I would have said no, but now? No, now he would probably briefly mourn my passing before resuming his government. God, how he hid his emotion in spite of his brothers death was beyond me. It was one of the many actions that got under my skin when it was over.

"All lives end, all hearts are broken. Didn't you say that Mycroft? Don't say you didn't because I distinctly remember Sherlock mentioning it." I was furious, but defeated. It was only raw resentment that spoke for me otherwise I would be a mess at this very moment. The only emotion keeping me from falling was the utter rage I felt right now.

Mycroft was sitting in his chair, "I suppose your therapist session didn't go well?" His voice was cold, but it was the chill you only get when everything that could have given warmth was doused in the water of deaths misfortune.

"No it didn't!' I shouted before noticing the off topic question and calming down considerably, "no. It didn't. Still, you never answered my question-"

"Accusation," he corrected.

"Accusation," I amended before continuing, "you said those things to him, not considering the fact that it could affect him. It could have been the cause of his death."

Mycroft looked up at me then and I saw a broken man. His form was composed, not a wrinkle in his suit. He was outwardly intact but his eyes gave a different story. In his eyes I saw that he was questioning the same question I just asked him. He was doubting himself, secluding himself. It was like watching a man turn to dust if anything.

"Please John. For the sake of my sanity, don't. I have already considered such and currently, I'm starting to doubt." His voice was heavy, full of age.

"Is there any way he could have survived at least?" I pressured instead of abiding to his wishes. This was the question I actually came to see him for. If anybody knew he was alive, it would be the British government. A tiny part of me was hoping that he was alive, that this was all a fake, but the bigger, more rational part was reminding otherwise. I just needed to hear it from his voice so this vicious circle can end.

"He isn't John," Mycroft spoke with an inscrutable tone to his voice. Empty, confirming; that was all I needed.

"A chance?" I whispered, walking up to the man. Peeking over at the tea saucer and cup in his hands, I noticed they were shaking as if the dishes were too heavy for him to lift. In any other scenario, I would stop, feel guilty, and apologize. On any other given day that wasn't as morbid as this one, I would do that; but this wasn't the day. No, I ignored the tremors and walked up to the well mannered gentleman.

I placed my hands on both arms of the chair, hissing barely audibly, "Any chance at all?"

Mycroft eyed my pained expression with a sad one, one close to sympathy but not quite, "John. He fell four stories high from the roof of a building. He fell to the street with deafening impact. I don't see a way for him to have survived that but you are the doctor are you not? You were there to give the final word. Stop being so ignorant."

He gently sipped his tea as his eyes fell to his lap. Sighing, I reached a hand up to toss the back of my hair, "He's Sherlock Holmes, he would have found a way. He wouldn't have jumped for no reason."

I saw a flicker of curiosity in Mycroft's eyes, but it was gone in a flash, "He was a lonely man, unappreciated for his actions. He was pressured a downfall by the press as you predicted. A fake, or so he was persecuted for. A crime plotted against him that he couldn't derive from. He had all the ammo he needed."

"But that isn't him!' I cried, moving away from the gentleman while throwing my hands in the air, "he didn't care about what people said about him. I've heard worse from people who weren't even the press and he just brushed it aside like it was nothing. He didn't care what people stated whether criticism or praise! How can a man raised and known to be stoic and dismissive of emotion to suddenly care? That isn't Sherlock. He doesn't even care as to what I say of him."

"A lie Dr. Watson. A lie in its place," I heard Mycroft murmur and turned back on him.

"You were his brother. Surely you knew that he wouldn't do this for that reason."

Mycroft sighed and put his tea aside, "listen to me. I... I wish I could tell you he was alive, but he isn't. I have eyes all over London, all over England even, and nothing has been whispered of,' he leaned over slightly looking me straight in the eye, 'you have to let this go John, please. If not for yourself, than for him. He always did find sentiment boring and a losing characteristic. Don't give in now to the mantra he used in discrimination, or you are no better than the rest of the simple-minded idiots out there."

I stood there stunned, "but-"

Mycroft sat up, eyes narrowing slightly as he reached out to his umbrella. Using his thumb, he gently rubbed the same area of the handle. It was already so worn and coarse that I didn't understand why he kept doing so until I saw the initials carved in, "S.H."

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. That's what I told him, but now I find the last part to be improvised," Mycroft gave a small, minuscule smile, almost nonexistent, "caring is not a disadvantage. I've spent a while now trying to discern this; thank you for the final proof."

After that I left. That was the last time I ever saw him though it certainly wasn't the last time he would see me. I never found out where he hid all those blasted cameras but I found no ambition to do it now. What would be the point? Just procrastinating the inevitable. If Mycroft is seeing this, so be it I guess. Just as long as he doesn't stop me.

'No John. Don't do it. He wouldn't want to see you like this. He would want you happy' the hope in the back of my mind spoke in a small, quivering voice to my hollow glare. I could feel my teeth clench and felt my eyes trail down the scythe of my choosing with even more doubt than before. That's when I closed my eyes, shutting anything from my sight to disdain upon. No heart, don't interrupt me now. After all, you were practically the fuel to this act.

If he was here though... If he was. Too many if's, not enough certaintys. If he hadn't jumped, if he let me bloody help him. If I had actually done good. If I killed Moriarty when I had the chance. So many of these regrets and it is to be topped off with the simplest of all. If he was here.

Would he stop me? Opening my eyes once more, I looked out the window he always observed through. Clouds were driven slowly across the sky, dark and threatening rain.

"Would he stop me?"I whispered to myself, my fingers trailing down the condensing glass, hoping for its droplets to reveal the answer I needed. After a second, I shook my head vigorously. No, he's gone; I shouldn't be dwelling on the past yet here I stand, using his actions to persuade my own.

'if he was here though...'my little hope breathed into my mind and those fingers tips, once trailing the cold glass, were now fists.

"well... he isn't here now is he?" I spoke in a bitter voice, resounding along the subtle walls in silent discord and crude waves. It was so grainy, so different from when I last spoke to you. I hadn't heard my voice in such a long time, but it brought no euphoria in the slightest. No element of divulgence was brought to my achromatic eyes. It breached no reflection of color besides the notorious blue that had long accompanied my thoughts.

A sea of blue, of melancholy nightmares and dysphoria. It was a relentless ocean that never was kind to me, to my actions, or to those I thought of. Viscous, reddening, that's all it ever was and ever will be. It will remain a tossing sea until I walk to death's door on my own accord or from the influence of others.

Oh God, if you were here now, you would no doubt mock me for my endless metaphorical mind. You would probably saunter around the flat, discouraging my writing for being too romantic in your terms. I admit that back then I may have over - exaggerated the cases, but I never did the same for your analysis. That was exactly as I saw it, as I thought it. Brilliant, extraordinary, yet always dismissed as nothing. Curse you and your modesty. Your words still rumble in my thoughts from all the times you pushed away such compliments of your skills.

Thoughts.

I chuckled at the term, enlightened that such a word was brought to the front of my mind. Yes, thinking; something I was not doing or acknowledging to at this moment. Wondering about things would only bring doubt and the fear with it. Much like you said, my mind can be the remedy or the poison that delivers my eternal blow. Of course, those weren't the only memorable phrases you gave. I remember when you used to say I thought to much into meanings, that I saw but never observed. It's actually kind of amusing now; ironic even. In retrospect, I suppose even your brilliant mind couldn't observe this outcome, only seeing it as a possibility in the many different threads of your Web - like mind, your mind palace.

"Sherlock! Such a mess this place is," Mrs. Hudson cried out, taking notice of the rubbish that was strewn across the flat - papers, chemicals, a stray jumper: these were only the beginnings of what manifested in this place. I honestly wouldn't be shocked if we had somehow grown some mutant anomaly thanks to your "experiments".

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson," I apologized, glaring at you, "we were supposed to clean it today, but Sherlock is apparently busy sorting out his mind, or so he says."

"My mind palace John!" You corrected from the spot on the couch. I swear there was a shape pressured in those cushions to fit your long figure by the hours you wasted laying around on it.

"Mind palace?" Mrs. Hudson whispered to me, eying you with slight concern, "What the devil is that?"

I shrugged, 'I haven't the slightest idea. Something to do with all the apparent 'useful' information in his head or some nonsense like that," after a moment I added, just to spite him,'"Though the solar system and the fact that the earth revolves around the sun is not one of those things!"

The glare could be felt like a flame in my back as as I shouted this. In an instant you were up, but it was only to sit up on the couch Instead of laying on it. Such a bloody difference.

"How many times must I repeat this John," you seethed, "the solar system is only extra information, temporary files if you will, to my mind. You see this?" You pointed to your head, "this is my hard drive. It can only hold a certain amount of information thus I must sort what is actually useful compared to knowledge that will never see the light of day. There is absolutely no point in remembering the solar system and all that rubbish since it will never be useful."

I rolled my eyes, replying sarcastically, "Oh I see. How silly of me Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Forgive me for not knowing your impossible mind and the incompetency of the facts you hold."

"You are forgiven," you spoke, obviously not smelling the sarcasm in your blood hound sense of perspective.

I threw my hands in the air and stomped over to you, "that was sarcasm you bloody idiot. Besides, how can you be sure it will never be useful, hmm? What if, by chance, there is a case and you have to rely on the solar system to save a life?"

You turned to me, a look of blatant mockery on your face, "Then I will turn to you because you obviously wasted your space in your head mesmerizing all the little planets and stars."

"So it really doesn't matter to you," I responded in a tone that could only be described as 'are you kidding me?'.

"No it doesn't. You must enjoy not being me, teetering little pointless facts back and forth. I do not have such luxuries therefore. I cannot withstand the thought of that nonsensical banter plaguing my mind. I have better things to ponder that isn't the subjects others thought of centuries ago." With that you stood and briskly walked around the flat, occasionally picking up a few books to put on the shelves or placing a stray beaker on the counter. "It's elementary John. Think it through before the next time you speak."

"God, I swear my head is going to explode from your fatuousness," I muttered doing the same.

Hearing a giggle, I turned toward the noise and gave a confused look when I saw Mrs. Hudson laughing in her palm. She held that gleam in her eye.

"Did I say something funny?" I questioned the elderly woman, subconsciously throwing my jumpers back into the bedroom to put on hangers.

She shook her head, "Oh no dear. It's just cute watching you have a domestic trifle. You two argue like a old married couple," she chuckled again, laugh lines becoming more prominent with each smile.

I flushed, "Mrs. Hudson. I'm not gay I assure you. We are just flatmates," I was going to continue defending myself but stopped when Mrs. Hudson was heading out the door.

"Whatever you say dear," but she still held that smile, "oh! You boys best clean this up before I come up again!"

"Yes Mrs. Hudson!" You and I replied in unison before looking at each other. We stared for a moment before breaking into fits of laughter.

You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, "us together?"

"Impossible," I joked, wiping my own tears away.

"Absolutely absurd," you added with a smile.

After that we continued cleaning with only the smallest of banters, but I still remember that smile you gave me. It was a sad one, a smile that wanted to say something but knew better than to. It was only an instant, I almost thought it was my imagination, but I could never imagine such a smile unless it was on my own face. I wish I had known what you were trying to convey because now I know I never will.

A heavy sigh made its way pass my cut lips, leaving a sharp jab on the chapped skin. The sting of the light force on the exposed muscle was nothing. It was only a numbing sensation compared to the pain I felt in my heart. My heart that now was broken at my feet, glinting in guilt and the dark matter known so well as death's shadow. I was nothing but a shell now, a soul that retreated back to its core once it realized the world was too harsh to handle.

It was at first, the changed city of London. It was almost too much to handle, too much to bear. Those were days that were so blurry I could barely remember anything. A shadow of depression and loss that has never truly left. All I was certain of was that it was a dark time. A time when I struggled in the after wars that plagued my nightmares and eradicated my dreams. I couldn't handle the civilization since I was already grown to trigger fingers and quick reflexes. I was raised and ordered based on blood, gun shots, and dead bodies; at least, those were the parts, the lone remnants, that stuck out. Not the smiles of the men I accompanied nor the quality of weather. No, it was the gore, the traumatizing entropy.

It still haunts me, those dead eyes and lifeless bodies. The hands of certainty and utter bravery that only clenched loosely around the trigger they would have pulled. A downright sense of loyalty that aided in nothing but their adamant end as souls to have gone back to their families. It was so much worse for me than that. Most soldiers saw them die and that was the end of it; I did not have such luxuries.

I was one of the few army doctors, one of the best as stated by many. That is a lie. If I was the best, I would have been able to save every damn life that was given to me, no matter the injury or gore. I would be a god send even then, the ability of regeneration on my shoulders. All those lives that died on my fucking table would be walking, speaking, living. They would not be in the ground, 6 ft below rotting with only their service to give them any sort of pride in the after life. To be blunt, all those whispers, those wishes, those pleas of suffering, wouldn't have been mumbled through a dead man's lips if I was such a man. They may see me as such, but I know I'm not. The opposite in fact.

Those words of goodbye didn't disappear after the lives the gave them ascended. Instead, they curled into a circle and played a mind game in my head. Those voices, so faint and hushed, would return once more to speak their wish. The same wishes and ambitions I couldn't keep a hand on.

I was falling. I stopped conversation, hating the thought of idle chatter. The only friends of mine were the breaths of a dead man.

I... would have caved in sooner had I not met you. From the moment I conversed with your arrogant arse, I started a process that ended in something more than friendship.

At first it was that you were a distraction, just a man that will pass through my life in a flash like the others. I was certain that if I tried to rely on you more, that I would see you turn to nothing but ash in seconds. I was wrong. Subconsciously I was changing your status from an acquaintance to friend and even further still. I didn't know this, not at all. I didn't even fathom what you were doing to my mind until I shot that horrible cabby before you could swallow that pill.

You want to know why I did that? Because I didn't want to lose you. I didn't want to lose the man that had just started to make me smile in a long fucking while. I refused to see a man like you, bold and utterly confident, to fall to your knees at Death's beck and call. My ears didn't want to hear your silent pleas and my eyes didn't desire the deficiency of color in your blue eyes. Pale to white, languid to still; my mind didn't want to imagine this, not for you.

At that moment, the split second reaction that caused me to pull the trigger with dead accuracy, I knew something had to have clicked in my head. As I ran down the hallways and away from the scene, the crime I committed willingly, your red thread of abnormalities started to intertwine with my loose thread filled to the brim of despair. Strength came with that link; strength along with every part of me I swore I lost the second I shot my first man. You were my savior and in more ways than one, my lifeline.

Of course, it's funny to think that my savior will be my abrupt end. You were the one to take the shadowed scissors of the fates and snip our encounters.

I stood frozen at the entrance of the lab, sheer worry gripping me like a vice. I was looking at the message I got, trying to put things together. I was probably a sight at that point, every muscle constricted from past military reflexes though I knew this wasn't the case.

You were concerned as well, but not so much for the person I was thinking of, "What is it?"

I looked at you, "Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson's been shot."

You seemed to have locked in place for a fraction of a second, but I brushed it off as my imagination. Eyes cast down at the ball you kept tossing at the wall to bounce back, I assumed it was worry. She was important to you but you rarely showed such emotion except when I was in danger so I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know what I was looking for in a reaction from you.

"What? How?" You spoke though it lacked the amount of concern you should have felt. I could sense something was off but refused to think further. There was somebody else right now that needed such attention and, for once, it wasn't this present detective.

"Probably one of the killers you managed to attract," I replied bitterly, seeing the sight before my eyes, "Jesus. Jesus. She's dying. Sherlock, let's go."

I started to pull on my coat when I heard your response, "You go, I'm busy."

"'Busy?' How are you bloody busy and even if you were, which you are not, how could you not put it aside for Mrs. Hudson? She was shot and she's in the hospital!" If he held no sentiment before, this should have triggered something to manifest, even a twinge if possible.

Your gaze fell on me, a hint of a shroud to their orbs, "Thinking. I need to think."

I scoffed humorlessly, utterly bewildered, "You need to— Doesn't she mean anything to you? You
once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

Any movement that occurred before I spoke those words ceased. Your hand started to clench into a fist before slowly retracting. Lips became a thin line, and eyes averted to the lab table in front of you, "She's my landlady."

My teeth clamped together hard, my jaw protesting slightly at the action.

"She's only your bloody landlady?!" I stomped over to where you sat, hands in tight fists, "How can you say that? I see the looks you give her. They are not your apathetic glares you set on a persecuted idiot. Those were actual gazes of love, something you only show to a select few, so don't you lie to me Sherlock Holmes."

A gaze of indifference, "I'm not lying John. She was merely nothing more than a landlady. I'm incapable of holding love for any living creature I can assure you," I scoffed at this but you continued, "I held nothing more than idle amusement in her actions, a mere toy of intriguing interest."

"Bollocks!" I cried, "Absolutely ludicrous. I may seem like a fool, but I know you." At the last sentence I lowered my tone, noticing the over reaction I gave.

"No you don't. You only think you do," I heard you say solemnly and felt my face fall slightly.

"You can't say I don't know you when I have accompanied the same flat with you this long. I know your reactions of anything, how you react around certain people. You can't hide your worry from me, I know you are concerned for her. If not that, than you hold a sort of perplexity that is certainly there."

"If you say you know me, then you know I don't like to be around the medical crowd," a blatant annoyance to your tone, "just leave and give my concern with your worries. I have to think and that will not help in the slightest."

I was done by this point. I was done with trying to coax your sulking form to follow me, "She's dying you machine! Sod this. Sod this, you stay here if you want. On your own."

The door was only a few inches from my grasp when your response came once again to my ears, and much like the last, it caused me to freeze temporarily, "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

The tone you gave off was one that presented how much you believed in that statement. Underlining certainty and absolute power of verdict caked the baritone voice I had grown to smile at.

It took me a moment to recover, but that was only physically. Mentally, I wanted to go to your side once more and be your loyal blogger but morality came and tapped me on the back, pointing me in the right direction. I was sorry to say it wasn't by your side.

"No. Friends protect people."

I heard my voice say this but didn't remember moving my lips to form the words. In the same instant of confusion, I opened the door of the lab and left.

An idiot. That is what I was then. I was a fucking idiot for leaving you alone. I should have sensed the lie in the fake call. I should have been able to settle the off emotions you were giving but I couldn't. Blinded by false morals, tied up to a fake string of fate that only pulled me further from you, I was utterly encased in believing what I was doing was right.

I couldn't have been more wrong. It only proved increasingly so as I saw you on that bloody rooftop, as I spoke to your living corpse.

I'm not a religious man, never was, but I hope that this assassination could relinquish my sins if all possible. I just want to see you, I just want to apologize for my blatant foolishness. I want to be your loyal blogger once more.

Picking up the gun, I looked at it thoughtfully.

There was nothing around it. No paper, no pen, no letter with the whispers of a dead man.

I never wrote a note. That's what people do right? Write a note? I suppose you and I are the off ones, but then again, weren't we always? You never wrote a letter at all. You relayed your note to me since you trusted me. I was your only friend and you took that to your grave. Still, that little act now leaves me nobody to relay my own message to. I was alone. Nobody ever was as close to me as you were, still are not. My lone form was waiting for nobody to stop me like I had to do for you. I had the air, the shadows, and my own sciamachy at my side.

Well, if I were to say what I have to say, what better than to say it to my occult adversary? It would be better than to a picture of you huh?

I leaned back on the arm chair I claimed when I first got to this flat. It witnessed the beginning of our lives of turmoil and now it would besiege my utmost death. That seems to happen a lot. It would probably be the sense of home this place holds. What do they day? Home is where the heart lies? Well this flat where our bickering and teasing occurred is mine. It's where you rested, where you actually showed your real emotions that you hid with certainty that they were not useful for anything. It may seem so utterly pointless to you, the minuscule appearance they may hold, but if home is where the heart lies, than this will ultimately be my coffin.

Giving a final sigh of reminisce, my fingers lingered on the trigger of my honorable weapon, the only monumental part of me now, as I spoke to the air I hoped you observed in.

"It's ironic to think that I thought you to be the one in this chair, performing this act. I don't even know why I thought that when I first met you. It was probably the pessimistic side of me speaking up; I never was a optimistic person despite how I acted around you," I chuckled softly before saying something I've been wanting to since I visited your grave, "You claimed to not be a hero, you tried to persuade me into thinking you were a liar even. I can sense lies, I'm not an idiot thorough and thorough. I knew the truth, still do. You were never short of the best man I could have ever known and nobody, nobody, could try to dissuade me otherwise. Trust me, countless people already have..."

I could feel my head revert back to every little dismissive insult somebody shot out at my image of you. It was a bullet that converted to many tiny wounds, cracking my sincerity of your heroism, causing crevices in the mirror that held no body to have reflected from in the first place, no way to remake the image once it's gone.

"Your love for the unknown, for a new game that could revert you from your boredom, that is what always kept me on your heels. Your adamant glint of curiosity and the thrive to go as far as you could. You were stubborn as a mule, but it wasn't a bad trait. I always followed you for that. You were a man that succumbed to no conversation and even less company. In some ways, I was like you. I was the same as that, slowly reverting back since you've left. You saved me. You rescued the smile that left my face in the war zone, that the grim reaper severed from my nerves. You were the one to catch that red thread and tie it back to earth along with every ounce of my personality. It was you all along and I could never ever repay you for that."

As the words left my lips to the ears of whomever would chance to be here, my resolved began to fall. To be fair, I didn't expect to hold it this long. I was strong, but that only accounts for the physique. My mind is my Achilles heel. Of course after you entered my constant life, it changed so it was of equal strength. Damn you for making me rely on the shell you enforced. Damn you because the second you jumped that shell was stripped away immediately, leaving me gasping for the coating that kept my heart together for so long.

"I was so alone before I met you. I was stagnant in terms of blood and performance, but that didn't stop you from coming up to me because you had your own skeletons in the closet, some worse than my own. We were two separate puzzle pieces that just clicked upon impact in a irregular, contingent pattern that nobody could ever take away. I know for you it was simply a beneficial symbiosis of sorts, but to me? It was practically the world."

Sighing, I switched the gun to my less dominant hand and back, "I was unlike you though in ways that only helped our bond strengthen. I was the so called kind, loyal doctor to your so called dark, lonely detective. We were opposites and we attracted like magnets, like other halves of a heart to be cliché."

I chuckled to myself brokenly, the hitched breaths breaking up the laughter to sound inhuman, "You were the only thing to keep me weighted, but I didn't realize it until you breathed your last vibrant breath - before you fell in my arms. It wasn't until then I realized you were not only my only friend, but my best friend. I don't know if I was yours since you didn't trust anybody, but you were definitely mine. Our status doesn't change us though, it doesn't change this factor that whether you are my friend or not, you will be here to witness my last breath. This is my note that only your stale air will tell. Best friends are people you don't need to talk to everyday. You don't need to talk to them for weeks even but when you do talk to them, it's like you never stopped talking in the first place. That was us. You always knew when I was broken as I did you... Of course I caught onto it too late..."

I remembered when I had asked why you didn't back out of Moriarty's game when you had a chance. It was while we were in the case with your death if I recall. We were at the flat, struggling for time...

"Why didn't you fall back?" I muttered, glaring out the window as if the world was to blame for the detective's fault, for your persecution of guilt (In some ways it was).

You should have known better than to provoke the one man that was of equal to your standards or could have held the risk of getting that smart. You should have known It and you didn't. Now Lestrade was going to be here soon along with every other bloody officer in the yard to take you Into custody. I would have said over my dead body but you wouldn't have aided in your defense, you would have accepted it with silence.

"Hm...?" You responded from your spot on the couch. It was not filled with your stretched out body but just a part of you. Sitting up with hands together in your renowned thinking pose, you were contemplating quietly of God knows what. I didn't know how you were feeling because you kept your expressions so enclosed to your own palace.

Were you sad, upset, angry, or indifferent? I couldn't tell the difference. Mouth set in stone and eyes closed, I had no ways of configuring your mind set. The fact that you were thinking this situation over was enough to hint that you were unsure, nervous even though.

"Why didn't you stop falling for Moriarty's game when you had the chance?" I spoke slightly louder, rotating my body to face your unusually silent form. I was not angry, just exhausted. I didn't know what to do about this situation and since we were spent with a limited time frame, I was trying to think of what it would be this very night had you not thought of entering Moriarty's scheme.

For once, my mind was empty of possibilities.

You faced me with a look that screamed blatant mockery though your usual smirk was far from present, "my mind," you spoke slowly so I would understand, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere.." The words flowed as if a lecture was to be made but I decided to interrupt before I could say nothing.

"I... so because you were bored?" I responded frankly.

"No," you denied, "think John. Think of my profession, of my career. The reason I am what I am and ultimately made to be. With crimes, with mysteries I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world."

"To keep your mind busy, to keep it running," I spoke with understanding and you nodded, "if you are the only one, you will constantly be asked to do aspects, to perform tasks to give your mind the energy to run with no end."

The head that rested on those glued hands that resembled prayer lifted solemnly as the eyes of that head, your eyes, gazed directly at my own.

"As so, but I can usually sense when I have gone too far," you spoke softly. It was quiet, resolute, but I could feel what was about to come.

"You promised me you would never go too far, that you were incapable of doing so," my voice responded to your near silent murmurs. It was about as laconic and hushed as the phrases that left your lips.

"I did." Silence. It was of the essence but it spoke volumes without giving any other say.

"Sherlock?"

"John..." you hesitated, "I fear I have gone too far and now I'm unable to go back to whence it was."

You spoke this with the echoes of a child, of a man that knew he was going to be punished with something so disastrous he will utterly have to withhold to some miracle to climb those steps once more. It was crawling with death, with defeat that I had never known for you to personally hold. You always suggested a more confident atmosphere but this was the polar opposite.

It only made it all the more devastating with the weather. That characteristic always did hold to its bargain of making scenarios so much worse than they were. It was no different this time, but it didn't make it worse. It made it more potent instead, insuring the results.

It was softly raining then, mere sprinkles falling to the Earth and it was returning once more for my mistakes, for my fall.

A soft pattering of anguish began to become my background music to this melancholy monotony. It droned out the silence so my voice was the only sound loud enough to be heard.

"It still feels like it was only yesterday that you died, but even though It's not, I'm still bleeding. The wound is still bleeding out every time I think of you, but I know no one can see it. Nobody ever could until you came around."

I licked my lips, a small smile tracing their edges, "So... there. That's my note, though I won't ever know if you got it I guess. It doesn't matter. I just wanted you to know this. I wanted you to hear everything because I know that you're listening... somewhere. I want you to know that I will see you soon. In just a mere minute, I will be by your side and I will never leave again. Never."

A tear fell down, "Goodbye... Sherlock."

After a moment, I placed the gun in my mouth, a tear of resignation on my face. With no second thoughts, I pulled the trigger.

Click.

My eyes opened immediately when a bullet hadn't pierced my skull.

"What?" I spoke, shocked, before gripping the gun with both hands and repeatedly pulling the trigger, "No. No no no this can't be! I made sure this bloody thing was full last night! How can-? No!" My teeth were clenched as sobs came up my throat in full force.

Dropping the revolver on my lap, I curled in upon myself. My face was already wet with remorse as hands cradled it like a child. I was reduced to a weeping orphan, a man who wanted so much to die but was unable to do so. It was like death was playing with his red string of fate, watching as its owner squirmed and recoiled.

Was I cursed? Was I doomed to live this life of dread in the dark? At this moment it felt like it. It was the only verdict that made sense. The only one that held an ounce of truth to its certainty.

Of course, I wasn't going to let a bullet, or rather the lacking of one, stop me from my only chance of redemption.

Wiping my tears away, I stood and walked to the kitchen. The steps were heavy, clouded with a mixture of Morpheus's haze and death's eternal hunger.

"I-I don't need the gun. I have other methods," I stuttered between broken breaths.

Reaching the silverware drawers, I pull out the knife compartment and retrieve a scalpel from the collection. It was sharp and clean, seemingly unused by the detective. Then again, you did throw away scalpels that weren't to your liking, a long list of mistakes really. This was one of the few that passed your test I suppose. It wasn't uncommon to have such in the house, and for once I was glad for that.

Eying it with mixed emotions circling in my head, I sighed and sat at the table you did all your ridiculous experiments at. The dust on its surface immediately collected onto my sleeve as it laid listlessly on its cool top. The beakers and test tubes that once adorned the table were now gone, packed in a box for god knows where. Mrs. Hudson wanted to send them to a college perhaps along with any journals you kept of your studies and absurdities.

I shook my head softly to dispel the thoughts. Off topic. Too off topic. I should be thinking this... assassination over, not a future that I will not have.

With that thought weighing my head down, I lift the scalpel to just below my heart.

Quick or painful? Bloody or little to none? Agony or silence? I thought all of these over and over in my head like like a vicious circle, an endless debate of fate. It didn't take me long to decide what was best. The only painful part was stopping the cycle in my head to resolve to the decision. His death was quick, mine would have been If it wasn't for the deficiency of my military weapon, so It makes sense if I make this quick. I was glad for this, too glad for a man about to commit his own murder.

My medical mindset kicked in as I pondered where to aim. If I were to stab my head or heart directly I wouldn't die instantly per say but it would be quicker than the other options. The head would be less painful I would assume, like yours being so, but it was fast. That index was slow and steady. The heart was much the same with a lot of pain instead of none. The only other option was arteries, harrowing but quick. God, I didn't know planning ones suicide would provide so much thought. Where to afflict the cool metal?

This time, I listening to my heart as it spoke to me.

The heart, or at least, what is left of it. After you left, it was like part of my heart was stripped of me. It wasn't mine, not anymore. When I saw your body, it clung to you, not even bothering to look at its previous owner. At your funeral, when I gave my speech it decided to lay next to your own heart. Lastly, when your body was buried six-feet under the earth, that final piece said its goodbyes before going away permanently. I only had half, and I'm not even sure if that part is my own either.

My sobs fell to a silent stream as the part in my chest thumped painfully, missing its other half desperately. Well, maybe it will get its wish. I will be joining you shortly after all.

Positioning the knife on the correct angle, I took a deep breath and was about to plunge it into my chest when I heard a voice. A sound that wasn't from my imagination, from my own figments of insanity. No, this sounded real, but how was I supposed to know at this point considering my state of mind.

"John. Don't."

Lowering the scalpel briefly, I turn around to face my sciamachy.

It was you. It was you in your coat and high cheek bones. It was you, but I knew it wasn't. It was only a lie, a trick to my mind as a last resort to stop me. It wasn't going to work. You were dead. You are dead. You have no way to be here, none at all. A ghost, a projection.

"You're not real," I murmured lowly. Lowering my weapon, I felt my eyes turn defensive on your doppelganger.

"Excuse me?" You spoke, taking a step towards me. It was a small step, the sort I did on your cases of mental incapacity.

"You're not bloody real! You are just a figment of my imagination to keep me from seeing the real him!" I cried out, tears falling. Why? Why couldn't I just die? I wanted to and if my life is to be kept as my choosing, then I want to die.

I saw a flash of regret and hurt reflect in your eyes as you responded, "I am the real me. I didn't die, in fact, I was never dead."

I laughed briefly, hysterically, "Don't lie to me. I felt your pulse, I noticed the damage. The real you is dead. Your just a reflection of him."

Your hands shook slightly at your sides as I spoke these words. Whether they were true or not was beyond me but at that moment I didn't necessarily care for either. I continued to stare at you as if you were a traitor, a demon. After a brief moment, I could feel one bubble of laughter escape my lungs.

You looked at me with concern, "John, are you okay?"

Another burst of hysteria, "okay? You are asking if I am bloody okay? Do I look okay? If you say yes then you are more of an idiot than I thought," I saw him take a step and immediately added, "turn around and walk back to where you came. Back to my mind where you belong, not interfering with my death."

"I can't go back If I'm real; it's completely illogical," I heard the annoyance trickle into your voice, "besides, I'm not going to leave you. I'm coming over there to stop you."

Stop me? Just as I thought.

I could feel my resolve crumbling, "please. Just do as I ask. I just want to be with the real you."

The blue eyes I came to adore fell to a shadow. The face I was watching was not of a man I knew. In its place was an open book that has changed so much. It was more emotion than I was used to you showing.

"I'm sorry," you replied solemnly, "I can't go anywhere. Is there any place I can witness this instead? Where can I stand and not distress you?" You started to take a few steps back, but once your back was almost to my armchair, I spoke up.

'Stop there."

The scalpel was heavy in my hands as your mouth opened. I knew a long list of reasons was going to spawn from your lips and I knew I was going to stop once I heard them therefore I tried to take a hold of the situation.

"John-"

"Okay, look here, in my hand," I pulled up the scalpel and saw you internally flinch as you almost took a step forward, "I'm going to commit an assassination of myself. Much more formal than suicide." A small smile formed on my lips, my trademark with a hint of insolent sadness.

"Oh God," I heard you whisper, eyes widening slightly as you mouthed to yourself, "What have I done?"

My lips trembled as I noticed your reaction. It pulled my instincts from when you were alive and not dead. It pulled those strings so adamantly that restraining any further action was becoming hard. I almost wanted to throw this bloody knife across the kitchen so I could run to you, but I wasn't going to do that. You were not him. Never will be.

"I-I can't stop myself from doing this; so if you want to talk, we will have to do it like this, at this distance." I felt a faint sense of deja vu but didn't try to remember when. I didn't want to give a second of a minute for the fake you to stop me. Not even a fraction of a one.

"What's going on? Why are you doing this?" I heard the baritone voice mumble brokenly.

I gave a watery smile, tears down my face, "An apology. A chance to tell him it was all false and to be his loyal blogger once more."

Your face contorted to one of mild surprise, "what?"

"Everything they said about you. You didn't invent Moriarty. You believed a lot of falsely given persecutions that caused your downfall. I also want to apologize to you... for being a terrible friend, the only one you had," my breaths broke briefly as I uttered this to my figment of you.

"Why... why are you telling me this if I am an illusion? Your speaking to me as if I am him, but you are sure I'm not." You were trying to use reverse psychology on me to make me believe you were real. You're not.

"I'm a fake," I choked out with a smile.

"John-"

"I tried to be a good friend, tried to get out of my cloud of no social Interaction but I suppose I am nothing more than a fake if I didn't do the job friends are supposed to do. I should have pulled you off that building, should have ignored your pleas; but I didn't. I just stood and watched like a stranger." A little laugh escaped as tears came to the brim of my eyes.

"Okay John shut up. Just calm down. Remember that day? You tried to pull me off but I couldn't come down. You knew exactly what words to say didn't you?"

I frowned, "Nobody could be that loyal."

"You could," you asserted, a small step taken in my direction gone unnoticed.

A sad chuckle escaped my lungs as a smile reflected the same emotion. Yeah, me loyal? Please.

"I acted it all around you. Nothing I ever did counted as true friendship. I was just a machine going off what what I learned in the military; to trick the stranger with true emotions. None of that was real. It was all a lie, a big lie that even you fell for."

The hurt that reflected across your eyes almost killed me, "No. Stop it John. That isn't true and you know it. I can deduct you, but I know I don't have to, that you know it isn't true in the smallest rational sense." You started to take a few more steps but these were quickly noted. These were not missed like the last.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." I raised the knife in my hand and placed it over my heart as I eyed you with silent pleas.

You got the message and with a sag of the shoulders I've never known for you to carry, you replied, "Alright. Okay John."

By that point my mind already realized the deja vu in this scene. It was the same as yours on the roof top except with a few changes to my case. I was the one to die. I was going to be the one to say the final goodbye. Smiling a little at the minuscule fact, I decided to finish it.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" I asked to the apparition of you.

You sighed and with adamant worry, replied back, "Do what?"

"This conversation. It's my note. That's what people do right? Leave a note?"

I saw the dawn of realization finally shine upon you as you noticed the parallels in this conversation. A new emotion accompanied your face of worry, your features of concern. Horror now was on your face as you knew the outcome to occur. I swear I saw a faint tear but brushed it off as delirium.

"Leave a note when? I'm only an apparition John. You said so! You can't relay it to ghost can you?" You were desperate I'll give you that much. It was evident in the way you were once again reaching out to me like I did to you at that hospital.

"A ghost of you is better than no you. At least you can be on the other end of my note like I was to you," I murmured sadly before positioning the knife more firmly and giving one last smile, "Goodbye Sherlock."

"No! Don't-"

Overall, it was the hesitation that killed the action. Hearing you say the words I said perhaps a year ago was what shocked me because it made me not want to do it at all. Every part of me said that was the real you, even my heart, but my head said otherwise.

That hesitation, the moment in which I froze, is what gave a window for interfering. Even though it was a small opening, risky in fact, the full advantage was taken.

In those three seconds of hesitation, you took every ascendancy and dashed to my side. It was so fast that I didn't even have time to blink before you were there. Flinging the knife away from my hands, you held my hands as they subconsciously reached out to the thrown weapon. You held my hands and after the fell the my side, let go. You were so reserved, so careful in holding my fragile figure but that changed as I calmed. After my initial shock wore off, you hugged me.

It was warm and held a waterfall of emotion I knew you had kept hidden, but never truly believed existed. It encompassed every little word and phrase you so wanted to say but couldn't in fear of breaking the receiver. It wasn't a lovers hug per say, more described as wrapping your entire form around my own. It was protective and yet I could sense the underlying possessiveness of the action.

Wait, you were hugging me? This was you. This was you in the flesh. I could feel the tears come to the brim of my eyes as my brain began to process this. A hiccup escaped my throat and I could feel your arms respond to the burst be shadowing me further in your dark attire.

I didn't know how to describe it. My mind had been glued to the past that the remover of it seemed to be nonexistent. Memories were glued to a year ago and so the little motion of yours was like a reply to the silent pleas I had spoke through these dying lips. It broke of the ties I had triple knotted with my antiquity so they could repair to the certainty of the present. It was, to be frank, a miracle and nothing short of it.

After the shock resided, I felt my arms surround your waist. I swear to god your waist was not this slim last time I saw you. I could almost feel ribs and my doctor persona wanted to kick in but I kicked it aside. Not the time, certainly not so.

No, this was not a moment to scorn for habitual appetites. It was a time to rejoice and perhaps cry quite a bit.

You were alive. You were here, you weren't the ghost I perceived you to be. There was a heart beat. There was a pulse in this warm body of yours. It wasn't cold. It was not still and lifeless. Your eyes sparked with color and worry, not with a blank stare. It was you in your entirety and nothing short of it.

No tears could fall from my eyes. They all were shed before you encircled my form. Only dry heaves and sobs now shook my body as I realized what I almost did to me, what I almost did to you.

Suicide. I almost performed suicide and right in front of you. How could I have..?

"I'm sorry," I choked out into your purple shirt, "I'm so sorry. I-I didn't-"

"Shh..." you hushed, pulling my head to your chest, "it's okay. Your okay. I'm okay. It's completely okay." The response seemed to have a double meaning. Half of it was to reassure me but the other half was to yourself. I realized this when I felt your hands shake slightly from the emotions you hid during that entire encounter. How could I have been so blind?

I shook my head, "I almost did-"

"But you didn't," you interjected, "I stopped you. As far as I am concerned, albeit completely illogical and irrational, that never happened. It was a fog that was simply misguided."

Oh God, how could you stand here now saying all of these calm phrases? It doesn't make sense! How were you not shaking my form with concern and a look that was questioning my sanity? That is what I would certainly do, but I guess that's where our walls separate in differences. You didn't place yourself before I, you were more concerned of my stability right now then interrogations.

I could feel the heaves that fell from my lips fall to silence as the warmth and sanity started to crawl back into my thoughts. I still didn't understand how you could stand with careful arms considering you would spin me to try and remember information from a case.

I felt a little laugh escape my mouth after the sobs long subsided though our embrace had not, 'Because it was you.' To me, I was answering my own question but to you I was probably looking less sane than I felt.

"John?" There was that disquiet look you hid so well.

I was trying to answer but I was difficult with you right in front of me. It was like thinking through a drugged haze, and and I have been through plenty of those. I backed away from the attachment, shaking still but I refused to stay in those arms any longer, despite how much I wanted to.

"N-nothing," I stuttered, internally cursing the skip.

"But-"

I could feel the deduction of my emotions begin to flow from your lips but cut you off before any of it could be uttered.

"Don't," I interrupted, "Don't deduct me. Just answer this one question." I took a deep breath, "how?"

You froze for a moment before shaking your head, "that's not important right now. What matters right now is that I am here correct?" You were trying to avoid the question, but I was accepting the dodge.

I sighed with a shadow, "but how? Why are you here?"

"Because I sensed it was time to do so." A robotic response, or near enough.

"That's not a good enough answer," I added with frustration, "why?"

Silence.

"Sherlock," I warned a little when the flickered angst I felt for a long time began to stir.

"Because of you."

I blinked, "What?" That was the last answer I ever expected from you.

"Because of you. I missed you John. The smile, the arguments, even your completely idiotic assumptions or habits. I craved for your companionship more than I yearned for my own stoicism. I would look over my shoulder when I was... away, and I would expect you on my heels. I would say something, a normal request I would speak to you, and would feel loneliness settle in instead."

"Sherlock-"

"So why did I return home? To rekindle the flame of the friendship I knew I severed when I left. I was lost, still am, but I never knew how lost until I felt the only object of valuable meaning being stripped from me. I..."

"You don't have to say anymore," I whispered. I completely understand.

"No. I will say this before cowardice settles in. When I was gone, I felt my heart drop to a low. I was more unbearable, more irritable to the simplest of stupidity. I was a sullen shadow but when I thought of you, how eventually I would see you again, I could feel a piece of that shell disperse to reveal my past self. My heart would change. It would beat, flutter even. It was different and I didn't understand it. I didn't know what it was. I still am somewhat frustrated over it.

"But," you spoke, "After a while, I began to see what it was. I am incapable of giving any emotion of worthy praise. I don't understand it. I don't comprehend what little displays of affection do; instead I analyze it to a subject of my understanding. Give me a murder and I will define it to its core, but give me a heart and I will tear it to shreds without revealing a single ounce of what it felt in its last few moments of life. Emotion carried no relevance to my mind yet It did so after I lost you."

After you spoke this you walked up to me, "I didn't know what I had until it was gone, but now that I do I know that I now carry this feeling, this despicable emotion called love."

I felt my eyes lower as he said those words with such distaste, but my eyes didn't stay cast off for long before your index finger coaxed my face up to meet your blue eyes.

"I now nurture this despising emotion, but I could not think of anybody better to share it with." With that you leaned in to place a slow kiss on my lips.

It was sweet, different from your cold exterior. It was odd but not at all bad. Until that moment I didn't know you could have harbored such a feeling such as love, but now that you did, I'm glad to know it was me that you felt it for, despite the cliché wording of it all.

It's funny because i didn't know i could reciprocate the emotion until you uttered that realization to me. I was certain of otherwise but your assertion made something click, something buried. It was uncovered as I realized what I went through was not simply a friend depression but one you did over a lover. A end of losing the one person who presented love to me. It was so teenage like, so utterly girly to be concluding this way, but it was the concluding truth.

So, despite all else I have felt for you whether anger, distrust, sadness, or non; I suppose I so have one thing left to relay to you Mr. Sherlock Holmes. One thing left to say that will eventually be read in a unwritten blog, one I will never post. Three words.

I love you.

I'm sorry, but my favorite quote I wrote in this that was of my creation would have to be the "Give me a murder and I will define it to its core, but give me a heart and I will tear it to shreds without revealing a single ounce of what it felt in its last few moments of life." That is my ultimate favorite sentence in this~

Okay, as for the rest, what did you guys think? I know it's sad and almost had John commit suicide, but is my apology accepted?

Review/Critique whatever you like! :)

Ciao~