Disclaimer: I do not in anyway own Sherlock, or any of the characters mentioned. Cheers!

Grey. The world was grey, sad and washed out, devoid of color and feeling. Empty. It's all just a blur, moments undistinguishable from each other, not that he cares anymore. What's the point? The flat is uncharacteristically quiet, the only noise coming from the tap in the kitchen; steady dripping, seemingly in time with his heartbeat. A heartbeat he doesn't want, not the right heart, not the deserving one. Why should his be beating steadily in his chest, when another lay still, so very still.

It shouldn't have happened this way. It wasn't right, so very, very wrong. Unfair even. The case had been straightforward, a robbery of a small market. Sick of being cooped up in the flat, John had persuaded him to take the case, saying it would be nice to get out, maybe there would even be a chase. So Sherlock had agreed, and it had indeed ended in a chase through the park.

The robber had decided to go for another store, this time a drugstore, but John and he had been ready. They had set off after him, losing him when they had reached the park. "Go that way!" John had yelled at him, while taking off down the path to the right, leaving Sherlock to tear down the left hand path. Not seeing anything in front of him, Sherlock had made to turn around and follow down John's path when a gunshot had rung out in the still night air. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he took off towards John.

He had been proud, thinking back. He had known John would catch him. Dependable, solid, reliable, that was John. Grinning, he slowed down seeing a body lying on the ground. "John? Where are you?" he had called out, grin fading slightly. Looking around, he didn't see the form of his friend against the darkness, only the still one on the ground. His blood ran to ice as he approached the body, seeing not the robber, but John. His John.

Most of what had happened next was a blur, a fuzzy movie that wasn't his life. He remembered texting Lestraud for an ambulance before throwing his phone aside and falling to his knees beside the still form that was John. He remembers the feeling of John's blood coating his hands as he pressed on the gunshot wound, trying to will the blood back into his body. Yelling at John not to leave him, telling him to just open his eyes, that he's an idiot for thinking he could die on him. The next thing he remembers is Lestraud pulling him away from His John, His John…

The ride to the hospital was hazy, people moving over John, yelling words that he couldn't process. His mind had been blank, so painfully blank and empty.

Dead on arrival. DOA. Those were the words they had used. There was nothing to be done, nothing that could have been done. The bullet had hit his heart almost dead on. He had been dead almost immediately.

Sherlock doesn't try; he floats around as if he's a ghost, unaware of what's happening around him. Molly and Mrs. Hudson try to talk to him and comfort him, but he doesn't respond. He sits in the hospital waiting room, staring at the wall, sure this is just a bad dream and he'll wake up soon to John pouring him tea and smiling at him. His John.

Hours, days, maybe months later, he is back at the flat. He doesn't recall how he got here, just that he's here. But he doesn't want to be here. Everything screams John. His RAMC mug still sitting beside his chair, dregs of tea still visible. It feels like forever ago John was sitting right there, paper in one hand, and mug in the other. Slowly he makes his was up to his room, no, their room, opening the door and going to lay on the bed. Reaching over he picks up John's pillow, bringing it to his face, breathing deeply in, and savoring the scent of John. It feels so unfair, he didn't get enough time with John, with the three years they were apart, only becoming so much more after he'd come back. He still can remember the way John had pressed his lips to his, yelling at him between kisses. He could still feel those soft lips on his. How was he expected to go on? Why should he have to?

The funeral had been well attended. John had always been well liked; most of the Yard had showed, as well as friends from the Army and medical school. Sherlock had sat at the back; not wanting to believe this was real. Mrs. Hudson had tried to get him to say something, but what could he say? Nothing could bring John back. Did she want him to talk about how John had been the only one to understand him, to love him, to believe he was worth more? How John would always forgive him, no matter how much of a pain he was being, no matter how many body parts were in the fridge, no matter how many experiments he did? How John was the one to take care of him, getting him to eat and sleep, nursing his wounds, kissing them better. How John had been the only one that he could love. That the loss of him made him feel empty inside, like his heart had been scraped out? No, he would sit back here, quietly, staring at the casket that contained his heart.

John Watson.

Friend and Companion.

Gone Too Soon.

Sherlock stared at the words. Slowly he sank to the ground on his knees, hand pressed to the cool stone. Eyes fluttered closed. Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he finally gave in, unable to keep in any longer. Sobs shook his frame as he kneeled before his only friend, his lover, the one person he needed. He couldn't survive without John. How he had lived before him, he'd never know. But there was no after John, how could there be when your heart was gone, dead and buried.

3 months later.

Mycroft stood before the two gravestones, unsure of what to say. What could be said? He hadn't been surprised when he had gotten the call, only saddened that it had ended this way. But life was rarely fair. One could even argue it was better this way, they way it would have always been. Sherlock would have never survived without his John.

Sherlock Holmes.

The Only Consulting Detective.

Alone No More.