Countless days had gone by now after his death, but John still couldn't allow his lips to form the name. It would always catch in his throat. It would never escape again, but it didn't matter. John would never hear the way he made his name sound so magical. Listening to his voice was like listening to the morning bird-song, but all that filled his ears now was silence. John would never know if he shared his feelings. Those three simple words would hang in the air forever, never to hear a witty reply form from his lips. But John needed to stay close to him. He couldn't let go yet.

John turned the key and walked into the flat. Mrs Hudson had started putting things in boxes, but the skull still sat on the fireplace and the yellow face stared at him from the wall. He slowly made his way into his room and looked upon the bed. His favourite purple shirt was on the bed untouched. John made his way round the room and sat on the bed, picking up the shirt, and breathing in the smell of him. He sat there for some time, eventually falling back, clutching the shirt, and falling asleep. When John woke, his hand was under the pillow, where he felt a small piece of folded paper. He took it out and read it:

I love you too John.

"Oh Sherlock," he whispered, "I love you more. If only you were still here." He sobbed, falling back onto the bed.

Sherlock looked through the small gap in the door and wished he could comfort the man he loved, but he had to leave, it was only for the best, but he left a small note on the floor for John when he woke up. But after that he never returned. John believed him to be dead, but he refused to find love elsewhere. His heart belonged to Sherlock and he knew on their next adventure, in life or death, they would continuously argue about who loved who the most, for the note Sherlock left that night simply read:

I love you most.