John Watson

I didn't know if I believed in an afterlife. Or at least one that didn't involve your body standing up and trying to kill anything in sight. So I didn't have any idea if Sherlock had any way of knowing that I sat there cradling his body for hours on end. I'd ended up closing his eyes at some point, though I didn't remember doing so. I eventually got up the nerve to burn his body as he'd requested. But I didn't set the entire building on fire. I burned him separately, and then Mycroft after, out of respect. There was no way in hell I was just leaving them there. I risked a journey to the cemetery, where Sherlock's grave was the only one which remained undisturbed. I buried the ashes there, his brother's beside him with a makeshift headstone. I decided that if this ever calmed down, I would get him a proper one.

I traveled for days alone. Just killing any zombies I could. Not even in an attempt to survive at this point. Just to let my emotions out in a productive way. At one point, I'd run out of bullets, and my dagger had been tossed out of reach. I'd been willing to let it end. But the bastard that was coming after me got its head cut off before it did.

The woman who had saved my life had been drenched in blood, her blonde hair cut short. Having no one else, we began working together. She told me her name was Mary.

Twenty-eight days after it all began. We were running low on provisions, lower on any sort of hope. We were fighting off ten of them when it all stopped as soon as it had started. They just dropped dead, all over the planet. This time, seemingly for good.

The wedding was small. Three years after the event which to this day still had yet to be explained. Neither of us had many people left. The reports estimated that as much as a third of the world's population had fallen victim to the madness. On Mary's side, her father, a childhood friend by the name of Elizabeth, someone she'd met while fighting. Just three chairs. I had the same number. Mike Stamford had made it out alive. He took the chair to the right. In the middle was Lestrade, who, it turned out, just hadn't thought of bringing his mobile along when he evacuated. He'd gotten used to his prosthetic leg by this point. You could hardly tell he had one.

The last chair was empty. But as I stood at the less-than-extravagant alter, I could have sworn I saw him sitting there.

And we're done! Thanks to all the people who allowed me to use their names for OCs and minor characters.

Another Linkin Park song this time. This one is What I've Done.