I know there are probably lots of fics out there right now about what John Watson's going through now Sherlock's 'dead', but this just came to me so I thought I would put it up :)

I hope you like it, reviews much appreciated!

The Darkest Moments, Chapter 1

A Silent Prayer

I see him in my dreams. Flashes of his life rushing past me as if being carried by a sea in the middle of a terrible storm. The images are worse than the ones I saw after I left Afghanistan, even when they're happy ones. His grinning face as he reveals the stolen ash tray, the anger in eyes when he tells me he has no friends, his fearful expression when I'm wearing a bomb for a jacket. I hear his voice, trembling with sorrow and fear as he makes his last phone call, telling me that he was a fake, a fraud, but how can I believe him with so much evidence proving that he was the man and friend that he has always been to me? But there is nothing I can do, I am helpless as his figure, which is suddenly very small, stands above me. All I can do is stare as he falls through the air and smacks into the concrete.

I hear a little girl screaming as he falls, the little girl who saw his face and was filled with terror, who made the first seed out doubt begin to grow in everyone's minds. Then there's a terrible thud as Sherlock's journey comes to an end. His empty eyes stare up at me as I look down as his blood-spattered body.

And yet I still can't believe he's dead.

Sometimes I go on my lap top and start typing my blog, only to realise I have nothing to write, there are no more adventures. Sometimes I go home and expect to find him curled up on the sofa, but he's gone. I wake up in the morning and think I hear gun-shots, and for a moment I believe it's Sherlock shooting the wall again, but after a moment I realise it is nothing but hammer and nail, people are still finishing off the repair work downstairs.

God, I need to get out of Baker Street. But I have nowhere else to go, it's no easier finding a place than it was when I first met...Sherlock (sometimes it's so hard to say his name, but I don't know why). When I try looking for another place to live, a feel lost in a world of the unknown. I want to be back in the chase again, I may have been useless and probably more of a hindrance than a help, but I want to be solving those crimes again, no matter how terrifying or dangerous they can sometimes become. I want that life back.

Because now my life is empty.

Mrs Hudson says she can hear me scream in my sleep, screaming "please don't be dead, please don't be dead" but I pretend I don't know what she's talking about. I try to act like nothing has happened, things have gone back to the way they were before and there was no such thing as a consulting detective…

…And perhaps there never was…

Sherlock's last words have torn me apart and I don't know which way to turn, sometimes I don't know if I can cope any more.

Has my life ended with his? In the darkest of moments, I think it has.

There have been times when I just stand up and walk out of the flat, knowing I desperately need some air. But the streets of London are crowded and polluted, there is no place to think, there is nowhere to breathe.

I've only just started to realise I've stopped talking to people. I hardly see Mrs Hudson because I'm avoiding her, I pretend to forget to call Harry, but really I just know if she hears me speak she'll know something's wrong, and I can't let her know that. Lestrade sometimes tries to ring me, what he'd want to say I don't know, and I will never know, because I never answer his calls.

I'm glad I don't see Mycroft often, I wouldn't be able to look him in the eye. It was his fault that Moriarty had created this whole web of lies around Sherlock.

Or were they lies?

Why would Sherlock's last words confirm that lie, unless they were true?

I walk past a telephone box and hope that it rings, so I can beg down the phone to Mycroft that it was all made up, my friend is not a fraud, he can't be. You have to tell me, you have to believe me. Sherlock is NOT a fraud!

It better be just a phone call, because if I saw Mycroft for real I might kill him.

Is it unfair to blame everything that happened on that one person? Maybe, but I suppose it's human nature to find a scapegoat, and when they found Moriarty's dead body on the roof (if that man really was Moriarty) I can't really blame him.

I just need to know that Moriarty was a real person, that what was said about Sherlock at the end was just a story, a fairy tale. I need to know that this is not Sherlock's end.

I visit Sherlock's grave sometimes, and once or twice I think I spot a tall figure wearing a long, black coat that gently waves in the breeze. But I look again and the figure's gone.

I see the look on my psychiatrist's face sometimes, I know she thinks I'm crazy. But when I keep on seeing Sherlock's silhouette as I walk down the street and when I look at his grave, maybe she's right.

I've never really had that much faith, but at times when I find my life's coming to an end, I start a silent prayer.

Please God, let me live.

Please God, let Sherlock be alive.

I'm leaving this one shot as 'in-progress' as I'm thinking of carrying this on into a short story about different character's thoughts and emotions about Sherlock's death - sound like something worth doing? :)

Thanks for reading! Again reviews much appreciated :)