Disclaimer: I own nothing.

John

"No, stay exactly where you are, don't move!"

"Alright..."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me, please; can you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

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

"Leave a note when?"

"Good bye John."

"No. No, don't... no, SHERLOCK!"

And then there was nothing.

"Sherlock..."

He fell, and everything stopped.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

No, he didn't fall...he jumped...into oblivion. He lied, I'm not sure why. I don't really care anymore. About anything. I don't believe it, I can't believe that he was a fake.

I can't.

I won't.

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Why did it have to be him? Why...

Reporters, journalists keep coming to the flat, trying to talk to me about him. They shout questions from the street below, but I don't think they understand.

I'm already dead.

And he's gone. Gone forever. Gone where I can't follow.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,

A formula, a phrase remains, - but the best is lost.

Not that I don't want to. They would stop me. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, maybe Mycroft.

I can't think the name of the British government without pain. Thinking of him makes me think of his brother, and that HURTS.

I tried once. I had pills from...somewhere. Unfortunately, Mycroft keeps a rather close watch on me now. He feels guilty.

Not nearly guilty enough.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,

They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled

Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

I miss him. He saved me in more ways than he ever knew, and now he's gone. The Yarders came to visit. Lestrade, Donovan, even ANDERSON came. I think they were shocked to see the state I'm currently in. Guilty, I think, of the part they played in his death. They might even be beginning to doubt their actions. I don't care. I haven't done for some time, I don't know how long.

Now a minute can last a second and a second can stretch on into infinity.

I punched Anderson. He mentioned His name. No one blamed me.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

And the way in which he left...

He died so easily. Too easily. I would have expected him to hold on, clinging to life with the same pig-headed idiocy that he conducted the rest of his life.

I know.

They wouldn't let me see the body. Mycroft said it had been cremated soon after death, no one wanted to dissect it.

But I do not approve.

For the first week after he left I was angry. I left Baker street, got a room at a B&B and I released my fury where I couldn't hurt anyone. Fury at him, at me, at Moriarty, at the wholeworld which was in the end just as stupid and idiotic and BORING as he said it was.

And I am not resigned.

A/N: Hey people. This is the one named after a hat. Enjoy!

- A/N 0.2: Okay, I'm not the person who wrote this, but I'm the owner of this account. Just to clarify, the-one-named-after-a-hat is not me. K? K.