AN: So, I hey! I am by no means back, in fact I don't think I was ever really here. But anywho, this is a foray into the wonderful fandom that is Sherlock. I wrote this story YEARS ago, mind you, but decided that my absence has been rather awful, and I tend to disappear halfway through a story, so here is a one-shot as an apology. This way it doesn't leave you waiting for another chapter. I love Sherlock dearly, and wrote this piece while feeling rather angsty, hence the content. Yay for teenage angst I do so say! First person is not a thing that I am a particular fan of, but it lends itself to this piece quite well I think.

So enjoy my younger mind's twisted thoughts!

Disclaimer: None of the recognizable people or places belong to me. I am merely borrowing this for my own amusement, and maybe some others' enjoyment!

Three Years. It has been three years since I fell apart. Three years since my heart was ripped out. Ripped out, trodden on, and then thrown away. To the Thames maybe. Yes, the Thames, then shredded by a motor boat. That's appropriate. A nice long fall before impact. Three years since I last felt worthy. Of anything, or anyone. And since then I have screamed. Shaken. Cried. I feel shattered. Incomplete. Broken.

My name is John Watson.

And this is my note.

"That's what people do, don't they..."

Three years to this day, it has been. Since you left me. Since you stepped off that roof. Since you reached out to me with your pale, graceful hand, and I couldn't reach you. Since I heard your shaking voice. Since you said goodbye. And, the one thing I am certain of about that day, the one grounding thought, the one absolute truth?

It's my fault.

I know this. And I'm sorry. Nothing I do is going to make it better. Because you won't be there. You'll never be her again. Because you're dead. And it's my fault

So I'm writing you this note, explaining me, my life since you, my reasons.

When I thought of this, and I have, countless times, I thought about careful planning, of elegant script, and of concise deliberation. But as I'm finally doing it, everything goes out the window, and the only thing I can see is you face, with your curly hair, and your damn cheekbones, and those bottomless eyes.

I've put this off for three years because everyone says it will get better. That I will accept it. That, I may not see it, but I will move on. But that's a lie. False. Incorrect. WRONG! It won't get better, it won't. I still can't breathe freely; I can't close my eyes without reliving your last moments. And now? Well it seems strangely, morbidly, time. Right. And I know, truly know, that I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending. That ultimately, I can't live without you anymore. And I don't want to. So I won't.

I've thought about means, dates, locations, times, people. I have created a million scenarios in my head of how to do this. But it doesn't matter, does it? I mean, I've chosen now, the others don't matter. I thought about my old service weapon. Lestrade's. Throwing myself after you, off a roof. Off a bridge. I've thought about drowning, stabbing, hunger. Your harpoon. I thought, rested on, your revolver for quite some time. That seemed appropriate. But that's not what I have chosen. I thought about where, St Barts like you? Or our living room, in your chair, in my chair, on the couch. What about your room, or the bathroom. Or where Mike first suggested rooming with you. Where I met Mycroft. Where our first case ended up; where I killed for you. Or our last case, where... But none of them will do. I'm doing this for you, I'm going to do it with you.

I found a needle, you know. Four days ago. Under the couch there's a loose floorboard. Did you loose it, or was it just conveniently there previously? I suppose that doesn't matter either.

I haven't told anyone else, this is my only goodbye. You were the only one that deserved a goodbye. The only one that I want to say goodbye to.

The pages are quite blurry now; I've spilt too many tears. I wonder if you'll be able to figure it out. Of course you will, you're the smart one after all.

I've rambled a lot in this, my friend. I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. There's still so much to say, need to tell you. But we'll be together soon, I'll be able to tell you in person.

What I would give to run my fingers through your unkempt hair again. To see that turned up collar once more. To see your smile, knowing I put it there. I miss the violin, you know. Your violin, waking me up at three thirty in the morning. The no explanations. The odd requests. Even the body parts in the fridge. You were so annoying. So unbearable. So... mine. You were part of me. So when you died, so did I. Only, my body didn't. Now it's following you. You used to call me your blogger. Am I still? Not in this life, but perhaps the next. You were my detective. I never told you that. I should have. There is so much I should have done. But it's too late. Just as I was too late.

I think I've said enough now, I think you understand.

So, "this is my note." You said that once. Now it's my turn. I'm always following you.

I'll see you again soon, my dear Sherlock.

I love and miss you more than the whole world.

Your Blogger,

John Watson.

FIN

AN: So, this ended up being Johnlock, that was unplanned. I have alluded to many different things and events in this, so kudos if you spotted more that seven! This was deliberately fragmented, with many different trains of thought. It adds to the chaos and desperation that one can feel when in such a dark place. I will leave it open, did John go through with his plan, or did Sherlock get to him in time? Also, I chose three years, as that is the original time period Sherlock was, how shall we say, away, and I wrote this very soon after the Reichenbach Fall was aired.

Hope you enjoyed!