Written as a companion piece/sequel for Emmylou's fic "For Afterwards".

Read "For Afterwards" first!

http : / / www . fanfiction . net / s / 6498393 / 1 / For _ Afterwards

Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of BBC. I do not own BBC, thus I do not own Sherlock. I make no money from this fanfiction.

2nd Disclaimer: "For Afterwards" is property of Emmylou. This plot is not mine, thought I wrote this story.

Warning: Character Death, language

Summary: Immediately after the events of "For Afterwards". John decides to make one last entry in his blog.

The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson - Afterwards: Final Entry

Posted: December 29th, 2010; 5:13am

Location: 221B Baker Street, London, England

It was a normal day. I came home from the surgery to find Sherlock playing the violin. I could hear it from down stairs, an ambivalent tune which jumped about, slow and sad one moment, but cheerful and lively the next, before becoming quick and angry as I opened the door. Something had upset him, I wondered if Mycroft had dropped by.

I wasn't surprised in the least when Sherlock requested that I, being the resident doctor, inspect a medical file. The report itself was non-revealing, could be a number of things, but it was the CAT-Scan that dismissed any half-formed diagnoses I had contrived.

Cancer. Maybe a year before symptoms began and treatment became necessary.

I wondered who the unlucky bastard was. There was time, the patient had caught it early enough that they had a decent chance at surviving treatment, but cancer is an unwelcome thing in anyone's life, no matter how good the odds were. I wondered what case Sherlock had taken that would require him looking at medical records- and what the hell had happened to doctor-patient confidentiality.

I almost didn't believe Sherlock when he claimed there was no case. But I believed his next words.

"They're mine."

God, those words hurt. I was on the verge of tears. The idea that he'd been hiding cancer from me- but he hadn't hidden anything.

-w-w-w-

It was December 10th, 2010 when Sherlock learned he had cancer. When I learned he had cancer.

It was a normal Friday when Sherlock asked that I… euthanize him.

I did cry then. All I could think at the time was, 'It's not fair.' Because it truly wasn't fair. Sherlock was great, brilliant, a genius in every sense of the word. He is- was, the type of person that legends are born from. He was supposed die heroically, disappear mysteriously while taking down a syndicate leader or something, proving that he isn't- wasn't the psychopath that people like Anderson and Donovan thought he was, but something more than human.

Sherlock was supposed to live long enough to become the good man that Lestrade thought he could be, instead of just a great man. I truly thought that he and I would go on forever. Sherlock and John. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

But Sherlock had cancer, and he wanted to die.

By my hand.

-w-w-w-

He left it up to me, left everything up to me.

"It's up to you John. Do it when you're ready. If you don't, we'll wait it out together," he said. Sherlock didn't understand how much his request killed me, but he still gave me the option to say 'no', to force him to combat the cancer head-on. He never mention his it again, but he knew –and I knew Sherlock knew, because he always does- that I would follow through with his request. He knew that I respected him too much, loved him too much, to refuse him.

-w-w-w-

I tried everything within my power to convince myself there was a better way, that it would be better for Sherlock and I to tough it out, to fight harder for survival. But I knew Sherlock's chances. His body weak from excessive drug use and lack of nutrition- he never would survive treatment, regardless of the fact that he caught-on to his condition so early.

More than his slim chances of survival, I knew I wouldn't be able to bear seeing Sherlock so weak and broken, that even if he did manage to survive treatment, the slow recovery, the weakness, would kill him and leave me a broken man.

Better that I ended it. Before it truly began, before he became a shadow of himself. The only question was how. – But as Sherlock said, I'm a soldier.

I cleaned my gun the next day.

-w-w-w-

These last two weeks have been the shortest I've ever lived.

I wasn't very subtle in my grief. Every time I looked at Sherlock I wanted to scream, to cry, to something. It was if my ribcage were exploding, as thought the center of my being had its own miniature Afghanistan inside, killing me piece by piece. More than once I caught Mrs. Hudson giving me concerned glances. I wouldn't be surprised if she mentioned it to Sherlock.

Sherlock. I wondered how I could possible live without this brilliant, idiotic, selfish man. This sociopath who waltzed in and lead me into his own life.

And what a life it was.

Chases across rooftops, matching wits against murderers, surviving by the skin of our teeth and giggling about it afterwards as we basked in the adrenaline high.

Mycroft once told me that with Sherlock Holmes you see the war. I saw the war, and I loved it. Reveled in the war that Sherlock and I fought, side by side. Every day became a battle of life and death, hunter and hunted, and I was more alive than I had been since my discharge.

A life of danger, action, and genius.

Of music at 2am, fake drug busts, and body parts in the appliances.

Shared grins after a case, those quiet moments when we stop to appreciate life.

Of being mistaken for a bloody couple.

The thought of losing that, of losing him, made even breathing harder.

-w-w-w-

It was December 10th when Sherlock asked me to kill him. To end his suffering before it began.

It was the 29th, 4:25am, when I went into Sherlock's room and put a bullet in his brain.

Killing Sherlock was hard enough. Cutting off both my legs would have been easier. Killing him while he was awake… I wouldn't have been able to do it. I never would have been able to look my best friend in the eyes and kill him. I couldn't bear to see those beautiful, sharp eyes dull with death.

Better to end it in his sleep, without his knowing. No last words, no apology, no pain.

He knew. The envelope was right there on his nightstand, fresh blood splattered across my name.

For afterwards. – SH

A bullet fell into my hand.

And I smiled, through the tears, because Sherlock really did understand what fulfilling his last request did to me.

-w-w-w-

I'm sitting here at my laptop, typing this final goodbye for whomever cares to read it. Hoping that anyone recognizes this as more than a murder-suicide. I want someone to understand that I don't hate –have never hated- Sherlock Holmes, that even when I put that bullet in him he was my best friend, and I loved him.

So for the last time, goodbye.

~ Dr. John H. Watson