"I was so alone," I say, "and I owe you so much."

He had to have heard me. Jesus, I hope he heard me. I owe you. He knows what that means, doesn't he? He knows it means Moriarty. I approach the gravestone slowly and tap my fingers on it.

S.O.S.

I have to force myself to look like I don't know he's here. If Moriarty sees me looking at him, he'll kill us both. I hope to God that Sherlock sees what I'm doing. If there ever was a time I needed his acute observation senses, now was it.

I take a step back from the grave bearing the detective's name and turn to go back to the car where Moriarty and his sniper are waiting for me, but stop myself. I turn back around.

"Please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead." For a very brief moment, I think I see a pair of blue eyes hidden in the trees meet mine and I know he understands.

I exhale a soft sigh and turn around again, my only hope resting in the hands of the consulting detective. I know I'm safe; I trust this man with my life.

I turn once again and walk back to the car where Moriarty and his sniper are waiting for me.

"There he is, Sebby," says Moriarty with mock cheerfulness as I approach them. "Good thing too," he says, turning to me. "I was about to tell my assassin to shoot. You'd have had to make a second visit here to see your precious landlady's grave as well."

I don't say anything in response. Moriarty pulls out his phone and sends a text to the assassin at the flat, telling him his services won't be needed, and I am grabbed roughly and blindfolded by Moriarty's blond-haired accomplice. He shoves me into the back of the car with my hands bound behind my back and slams the door. I hear the two men get in the front of the car and start the engine.

We drive for what feels like about twenty minutes, though I'm not sure exactly. Someone grabs me out of the car and drags me down a flight of stairs to a room where my blindfold is removed. It's dimly lit and two male figures stand before me.

"John Watson…" says Moriarty. I glare at him, my face heavy with contempt. He smiles maliciously. "I seem to have lost my plaything, Sherlock. He took a very bad fall." He grins slightly. "I've looked for a replacement for him and sadly you're not nearly as clever as he, but I suppose you'll do," he says. "I get very bored very easily as you may know. I like to have someone to play with."

I look at Moriarty defiantly.

"You don't seem nearly as scared as you ought to be," remarks Moriarty coldly.

"He'll come for me. He won't let you hurt me," I say.

Moriarty laughs. "Oh, Sebastian, look at the poor man. He thinks Sherlock will come rescue him," he says. "How loyal of you, John, but I'm afraid the consulting detective is dead." He frowns condescendingly.

"He's not," I retort. "He's coming; I know he is."

Moriarty looks at me, malice in his eyes. He smiles faintly. "We'll see about that," he says. He and Sebastian walk back up the stairs and lock the door, leaving me alone in the dark basement.

I don't know how long I've been here. A few weeks, I think, but I can't tell for sure. Moriarty comes down what feels like every couple of days and tortures me. 'Out of boredom,' he says. Sometimes he drugs me and sometimes he has Sebastian beat me. I hardly get anything to eat and the dark is enough to drive one mad. All alone, in total darkness chained to a wall.

When is Sherlock coming? He should have been here by now. I need him; why hasn't he come yet?

I hear a creak at the top of the stairs and a thin ray of light beam in from upstairs.

"Hello pet," says Moriarty deviously. I don't answer. I've found it's best not to speak at all to him or Sebastian.

He flicks on a light switch on the opposite side of the room and a hazy orange glow falls over the room. He pulls something out of his pocket that looks like a drug needle. Today is going to be one of those days.

They're not good drugs. They don't make you feel good or relax or have cool hallucinations. They're horrible awful drugs that make your worst nightmares come to life and the hallucinations drive you insane with agony and the pain is unbearable.

There's no point in struggling as he approaches me, but I do anyway. I scream and kick and try to push him away to get those horrible drugs away from me but I'm too weak from malnutrition; I can't win. The needle stabs into my arm and he steps back from me, a twisted grin on his face.

The drugs take effect almost immediately and I let out an agonising scream as I curl into a ball on the floor, pulling my hair. My whole body is engulfed in flames and I see them licking up my skin. I thrash around and scream to get them off of me while they burn away my skin to fleshy wounds. The blood flowing out of me turns to molten lava and it burns when I touch it... I'm going to bleed to death... My fingertips become covered in little snowflakes that harden and encrust my hands in ice. The ice melts from the lava, but my hands are left frost-bitten and blackened.

The lava is pumping through my bloodstream now, burning and boiling inside of me.

"MAKE IT STOP!" I scream, but Moiarty just watches me like he gets some kind of sick enjoyment out of my agony.

The flames suddenly cease and the lava in my arteries turns back into blood. I'm shaking and sobbing, reduced to a whimpering heap on the floor, tears streaming down my face.

Where is Sherlock?

Moriarty grins maliciously and turns and flicks the lights out before walking back up the stairs. I see a thin ray of light through the doorway again before it closes.

Some people say when you die, you see a light at the end of a tunnel. Though, that's just a myth.

I'm in darkness for God knows how long. A few hours, a few days…I can't tell. I feel myself growing weaker with every breath.

"John," says a deep voice.

"Sh-Sherlock?" I ask quietly.

"John!" he says pulling me into a tight embrace.

"Sherlock! I'm so glad you're here! I knew you weren't dead! I knew - "

"John," he says sadly. "I…"

"What is it?" I ask.

"I am dead."

"What do you mean? You can't be dead, you're right here!"

"John…you…you're dead too," he says.

"What?" I ask quietly.

"You died a few hours ago."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your body is right there," he said, motioning to a scrawny figure lying motionless on the floor. His greyish-blond hair is wild and tangled and he's deathly thin. I can see each of his vertebrae poking out of his back through his shirt. I stand in shock, and Sherlock places a comforting hand on my shoulder. I'm almost unrecognizable.

"D-do I look like…like that?" I ask, frightened.

"No," Sherlock says softly and reassuringly. "You look just like the John I know. Healthy and happy."

I nod slowly, looking back down at the body with a sorrowful gaze.

"It's alright," says Sherlock. "We can leave now if you'd like."

"Where do we go?"

"Anywhere you like," Sherlock says with a warm smile. "Take my hand," he says, holding out a hand to me. I hesitantlygrasp the detective's hand and suddenly we're in 221B Baker street. I stare at the familiar furniture and the wallpaper with the yellow smiley face painted on it. Most of the stuff has been moved out though.

"Mrs Hudson thought you'd taken off after the funeral," he says. "Suppose she didn't think you'd come back."

I frown and he wraps his arm around me comfortingly.

"Can we stay here?" I ask in a small voice.

"If you'd like," Sherlock says. "No one can see us and I doubt Mrs Hudson will have the heart to rent this place out anymore. We can stay forever, if you want. Our own personal heaven."

I smile lightly and he kisses my forehead.

The body of Doctor John Hamish Watson was found on May 24th one week after death. The body was identified as Dr Watson by Molly Hooper, a Forensic Pathologist at Saint Bart's. James Moriarty and his accomplice, Sebastian Moran were put to trial for kidnapping and murder and found guilty.

"What's that?" I ask, looking at the paper Sherlock is reading from over his shoulder.

"It seems they've found your body," says Sherlock. "Moriarty and Sebastian Moran are in prison. Found guilty yesterday in court. Molly did your autopsy if you were wondering.."

I cringe slightly at the word autopsy, still feeling odd about someone performing one on my body. Especially Molly, remembering what I looked like when I died…so pale and thin and wild. I didn't want anyone to see me like that.

"Do you want to attend your funeral?" he asks. "You don't have to, but you can. I went to mine," he says.

"Will you come with me?" I ask; my voice sounds like a frightened child. I'm afraid of seeing everyone there mourning, or I'm afraid they won't be sad at all. I don't know which is worse.

"Of course," says Sherlock, placing his hand over mine. "I'll be right by your side the whole time." I smile lightly at him.

There are more people at my funeral than I expected. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson and Sarah all sit in the front. Harry's there with them. I can tell she's been drinking. Behind them are many people, co-workers from the hospital…not all of them I recognise. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and Sarah are all crying and even Mycroft, whose emotional discipline rivals that of Sherlock's, has soft tears rolling down his cheeks. Sherlock holds my hand the whole time, and I suddenly think of how it must've been for him seeing me sob at his funeral. I squeeze his hand and he kisses the top of my head. Lestrade goes up to say a few words about me.

"John was a great man," he says, wiping tears from his cheeks. "Everything you could ever want to be, John was. Brave, kind, smart, caring, considerate... Someone you could always count on. He brought something to life in all of us, especially Sherlock. He made Sherlock not only a great man, but a good one too. After Sherlock's suicide, John just fell apart… and I know the two of them are together now reunited and that John's in a better place…" His voice cracks and he can't speak anymore as he breaks into tears. Sherlock grips my hand tightly. Lestrade sits back down beside Sally, who hands him some tissues.

Afterwards, Sherlock and I go to the burial. There aren't as many people there, only the people I really knew seem to have come. Mycroft hugs a sobbing Mrs Hudson while Molly and Lestrade cry against each other's shoulders as my coffin is lowered into the ground, right beside Sherlock's.

Sherlock holds me tightly in his arms as the rest of them leave.

The Consulting Detective and I wander all around the world for many years, always making our way back to 221B Baker street, which has been and always will be our home, forever.