For You, I Would Do Anything

by SouffleGirl1313

Sometimes the world tries to take things from us, the things we love the most; the one person you would trade anything for. And this is the story of how I get that person back. My name is John Watson, and this is how I become a murderer. Set post reichenbach, based on a tumblr post where John lures Sherlock back by becoming the one thing he know's he can't stay away from...

Sometimes the world tries to take things from us, the things we love the most; the one person you would trade anything for. I've been to thirty-two therapists in the last year. At first, it was for disbelief, and then it was for denial. Don't they say that there are stages to the grieving process? I kept telling them he's not dead, he can't be. In all honesty, I didn't want to believe I had lost the person that mattered the most to me...I meant every word that I said that day, about owing him so much. All my life I never felt like anything special, mediocre at best. I thought I'd do something good for country when I joined the army, because I wasn't very useful with anything else. Well, after that whole incident, I had blew my last shot at achieving anything in life; too old to become something else, too young to retire and eventually rot in my old age. In my mind, it was really all over, what good am I to anyone, right? And don't think I sound crazy, we've all questioned our worth at one point or another, we've all felt alone and unwanted. What makes me so worthy of a life? I'm just another ant in the philosophic ant hill. No friends, no family of my own, and certainly not one I wanted to go back to. I couldn't even tell someone I was depressed, because I had no one to talk to that I really trusted. It's a horrible thing loneliness, isn't it? Eats' up your insides and hollows you out; like a worm gnawing at the core of a poisoned apple.

And then I met him. Brilliant stubborn, insane. It shouldn't have worked between us at all. He's strictly logical and I'm overwhelmingly driven by emotion...how could we stay in the same room together, let alone share a flat? That's just it though; it didn't matter how different we were on the outside because inside we were the same. He was an outcast. People don't always treat people the right way in life. They see different, they don't understand, they think "freak". And they let you know it too. I've always felt like I could never stand out enough, too ordinary to exist or even care about, and here he was at the other side of the scale, always feeling like he was too strange and too different for anyone to care about him. We both wanted someone to see the other for who they are, really see that and accept it. I think that's what love is. Not kissing or holding hands, but to see everything about a person, the flaws and the good things, and accept all of it. It goes beyond that though, because you truly genuinely like them for that. They make you feel like, for the first time there's something wonderful to wake up to, in a world of despair. You care for them so much, that all you really want to do, is protect them.

I think that was us. He made me feel important...needed...and I've never really felt that way before. I think I made him feel less unloved...that it's okay to need someone else, to be human even though everyone else preferred if he wasn't just because he didn't express himself quite the same as other people. It's funny because before we met, I became suicidal, he retreated into a shell of complete apathy and isolation; we really were a pair. He was incredible …oh sure, irritating and stubborn at times…but he was genuinely wonderful to be with. I always wondered even then though, how he had become such a focal point in my life, if I was truly that important to him, and then…he jumped. I would have killed thousands, for him to not do it. For him to be annoying the hell out of me, yelling at board games, not knowing about the solar system, and playing violin at three in the morning. I would have jumped a million times, if it meant he could still be rattling off deductions. I always wondered why he never told me, he knew what he was sacrificing, he absolutely knew before and he never told me. I could have helped him, I could have saved him…did he really not trust me enough to tell me? I'm really stupid sometimes, although I finally did figure it out. He did it to protect me. It's what we were always trying to do; protect each other, even if it's at the other's expense. If I was going to face a deadly criminal who played dirty, wouldn't my first thought be about making sure he never got hurt, never was harmed because of me? I never realized he cared so much until then. I was the first and only person he was every really open to, except maybe his family, which seems about as loving and compassionate as a herd of wild crocodiles. I think that's when it really hit me, the big picture. And my only compensation, was saying it to a grave and a decaying shell that was once my best friend.

I didn't grieve at the funeral, it was much too personal. I would look solemn, and thank them for their empty sympathy. I would go home to Baker Street, and I would lie in his bed, and cry. The tears always came when I was alone because I knew no one could see them. Nor would anyone care. I found myself staring longingly at tall buildings, noose's seemed pleasant, and gun's a quick means to a end. I had reverted back to what I had become, before I had met him. Over the next few years, I stopped the blog and started a new one, trying to keep his legacy alive in memory and stuff. You think it would have made things less painful. It made things worse…I couldn't stand that people would keep writing in about how brilliant he was. That's all they saw, the mind…couldn't they see he was a person too? That he helped people, even though he believed no one could help him. Maybe it was seeing the word brilliant written over and over again that finally got through to my thick skull. He was brilliant, undeniable of course…so what would a brilliant person do when they know the only way out is death? They'd trick the other person into believing they were dead. They'd fake it. The manic idea hit me on no particularly miserable day, as they were all pretty the same. He knew I was ruled by emotion, by heart. I forgot that he paid so much attention to me. That he saw positive qualities, like I had seen in him. I think he found strength in one of my weaknesses and decided to use it. If I believed he was dead and people saw me, the day he fell, it would be strong enough to convince everyone else. An act so convincing because it wasn't an act at all.

It was an insane idea. So improbable…but not impossible…so very him… I had wearily smiled at the thought. The first trace of a smile that didn't turn into a grimace at the thought of some happy memory with him, and how it could never be. He could have had people to help him, easily…he has connections…what did he say to me that day It's a trick, just a magic trick. I was so blinded by emotion then that I hadn't paid attention to what he had said. After this revelation, I had ran to Mycroft because he obviously had to be in on it... I don't think there was anything he didn't know about…except maybe what Sherlock felt. I was waiting several minutes to see him, looking around the office for a bit. Disappointing really, he eventually told me I was delusional, and that I need to see another therapist…I solemnly agreed, fighting a smile. There was a blue scarf in his closet, and a purple silk blouse, that would only fit a man, who forgets to eat most of the time; and that man, was certainly not Mycroft.

I had thought for a long time then, what to do, and more importantly, how? If Sherlock couldn't come back to me, then I would find a way to get to him or try to bring him back. However that wasn't so simple, I knew nothing of where he was. He could be a new name, country, and appearance for all I knew, or didn't know. I mean, what was I going to do, lure him back home with a nice trail of murders? That would catch his attention alright, he never could resist an interesting case…it's a crazy idea. He's crazy, I'm losing it myself, it could work. I knew just who to talk to as well. I would need an accomplice, and if it was anyone besides me who wanted to see him back, it was Lestrade. Even if he didn't understand Sherlock, he always believed in him when it came down to it. However, morality swiftly kicked in. I can't murder innocent people; my conscience reasoned...that would do none of us any good. And that's when it hit me; kill the criminals, the bad guys who need to be gone anyway. Lestrade would have them on file, the deadliest and most dangerous. One by one, I'd knock them off, and I'd leave something interesting behind, a twist, a clue, to make him intrigued; something to make it a game, to make it clever. And that's what led me to where I am now, throwing on jeans at one in the morning, hailing a bleary-eyed cab driver and waking up a very confused and rightfully annoyed Lestrade. Sometimes, the world takes the one thing you love the most, something that you would trade everything for. And sometimes, you just have to get up and take it back.

And after nearly three years, that's what I decided to do... or die trying...because what good is a life without him? We weren't single people any more, we were two who became a unit of one. He saved me, so many times, and in more ways than one, and now, I'm truly going to return the favor...I'm going to find him and bring him home...if it's the last thing I do...because for him, I would do anything...