Author's note: Sorry it's been so long, I had summatives and what not, and then my Oma passed away, so I'm sure you can imagine how stressful it's been lately. Second semester has just started and it looks like I have spare first, so I'm hoping to use my spare to work on this fic, but I make no promises. Reviews are always welcome! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, all rights to their respectful owners.

Chapter Warnings: Note is revealed (please note that it is the same as my fic "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes" as I decided to write this fic based on the note).

It didn't take Sherlock long to track down Molly, after all when Sherlock set his mind to something he could do almost anything. Though, Sherlock would tell you he was capable of doing anything. "Molly," he called after the woman the moment he saw her.

Molly turned around to see the tall man, and she frowned. He was so far from being himself that it was almost scary, and she wasn't looking forward to the coming days. She knew that it was going to be hard for him, and that she would likely have to prevent him from doing something stupid at least once. "Yes, Sherlock?" She asked softly, her eyebrow arched slightly.

"John... He wants to see the note," he whispered, his eyes falling shut a moment. "He asked me to get it." He opened his eyes and looked at the woman in front of him. His eyes reflected nothing but the truth and he hoped that Molly would believe him.

Molly studied Sherlock for a few minutes before she nodded. "He's not going to like what it revels... and you won't either," she said knowing that Sherlock would be there when John read the note. She was not looking forward to how the other would behave once he knew what it said. After all, Sherlock had always been against human emotions, how would he handle what the note had to say?

Molly took a deep breath before she dug in her purse to find the note, having been carrying it with her, knowing that John would want to read it eventually. "You're not to read it without John. Understood, Sherlock?" When Sherlock nodded, Molly slowly handed the note over the him.

With a small nod of thanks, Sherlock quickly headed back to the room that John was in, and sat down in the chair by the bed. John had drifted back to sleep while he was waiting for Sherlock to get back, so Sherlock set the note beside the bed on the bedside table and tried to get comfortable while he waited.

What could that note hold? What could possibly be in it that neither of them would like? Did John actually hate Sherlock? God, Sherlock hoped not. He pulled his knees to his chest, his feet resting on the edge of the chair.

When John woke, almost an hour later, Sherlock was still sitting there, in the same position. John looked up slowly to the tall man, his eyes bleary with sleep. "Hey," he murmured quietly, "Did you get the note?"

Sherlock slowly blinked as if he was letting everything come back into focus and he nodded. "It's on the bedside table," he murmured, blinking a few more times. "Should I read it, or should you?"

"Can you read it to me?" John whispered as he reached for the note and passed it to the brown haired man. Sherlock nodded slowly, taking the note with a slightly shaky hand. He was nervous, he wouldn't lie.

As Sherlock unfolded the note, John sat up a little straighter, still waking up. Sherlock slowly began to read, "My name is Doctor John Hamish Watson and this is my story. I trained at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, England, training to become an army doctor. I later became Captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers and served in Afghanistan until I was shot in the shoulder. I was discharged shortly after, once I had healed. I moved back to London, and was seeing a therapist, who believed that my limp was a psychosomatic limp when I met Sherlock Holmes. Little did I know that he would be the man to change my life. Within twenty-four hours of meeting the other man, I had moved in with him, and I had visited a crime scene with him. I should mention that Sherlock Holmes was not the average man. He was the world's only consulting detective. He was able to tell you your life story from just looking at you. He knew the moment that he saw me that I had served abroad, and he was able to tell me that my sister, Harry was an alcoholic, and that she had recently left her wife, though he did believe that Harry was my brother at first. As I was saying, Sherlock Holmes was an extraordinary man, and I am honoured to have been able to call him my best friend. When I first met him, I was warned by many to stay away from him. They told me he was a psychopath, and that he "got off" on other people's murders. I'm glad that I didn't listen to them, because if I had... Well, I suppose you'll find out. My first real taste of what Sherlock was like was our first case together "A Study In Pink" as I refer to it on my blog. That was when I really got to see just how into a case he would get. That was also the first time I saved his life. I can still remember watching him from the window in the building beside the one he was in. I can still vividly see him lifting the pill to his mouth, and I can still feel what it was like to pull that trigger, to shoot the man in front of Sherlock."

Sherlock's voice cracked as he continued to read the note, his eyes widening, "I think that's when I first started to fall in love with him. Over the next year and a half, Sherlock and I became best friends, though I think I was really his only friend. One thing Sherlock said to me will always stick in my head. He once said to me, "Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one." That was when I realized he needed me just as much as I needed him. But I wasn't able to tell him that I needed him, not the way I needed him. I never told him, and now it's too late. I wish I had of told Sherlock, even if he didn't return the feelings, even if he would never have been able to. I still wish I had of. Every fucking day I wish I had of. Sherlock Holmes was my best friend and the most brilliant man I have ever and will ever know. But Jim Moriarty made him out to be a fraud. Jim Moriarty made Sherlock kill himself. The day Sherlock died, it still seems like yesterday, but it's been a year and a half. He stood on tip of St. Bart's, his hair pushed back slightly by the wind. He looked down at me as he talked to me on his phone. He told me that it was his note. He told me that "sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side." And with his final goodbye, Sherlock jumped. I watched my best friend, and the man I loved jump to his own death, and by the time I got to him, he was already dead. By the time I got to him, it was too late. I'm a fucking doctor and I couldn't save him! It's been a year and a half since Sherlock killed himself. A year and a half, and his name hasn't been cleared. But I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I always will. I love him and I will never stop loving him. Sherlock had one thing right. It was that sentiment is found on the losing side. And I'm okay with that. I'm okay with being on the losing side. My name is Doctor John Hamish Watson. I love Sherlock Holmes, and I believe in him. My name is Doctor John Hamish Watson, and this is my note."

Sherlock fell silent as he finished reading the note, looking to John who had been awfully quiet the entire time he was reading. John was no longer watching Sherlock, instead he was looking at the sheets on the bed.

"That makes sense as to why I would try to kill myself," he whispered quietly.