A/N: So I'm new to the whole righting fan fiction stuff and this website and all. So any feedback or tips would be great! I do not own anything but my own plotline; the credit goes to the wonderful writers Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and of course Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Prologue

The sky had been gray and overcast all day. As the hours wore on, it slowly became obvious that rain was imminent.

All along Baker Street, people rushed quietly through their lives. Businessmen returned to their homes with suitcases in hand and wrinkles of stress creasing their foreheads. A man sat on a bench with his hat down low, alternating between watching the people walk by and reading the newspaper he held in front of him. A woman with dirt on her face carried a large bag as she slowly made her way down the sidewalk.

John Watson hobbled quicikly, his coat collar pulled up and hands tucked into his pockets. He was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the figure that was walking towards him.

John jumped slightly when he felt a hand lightly grasp ast his elbow. He whirled on the man and gaspedslightly when he realized who it was.

The man cleared his throat. "Hello, John," he said, after a moment of silence.

Instantly, everything flashed through John's mind: the memories, the emotions, and all that had happened two months ago that day. The day he had lost his best friend.

Pain ripped through John's chest making it hard to breathe. He groped for something to distract himself before he completely drowned in his sorrow.

"Detective Lestrade. Hello."

"It's been a while," Lestrade said, clearing his throat again. John nodded and leaned further onto his can, tucking himself carefully into the collar of his coat to block out the frosty wind.

When John didn't reply, Lestrade tried again. "I wanted to know how you were doing," he murmured.

"Fine," John replied, concentrating his gaze on a leaf that suddenly became very interesting.

"What about Mrs. Hudson?" Lestrade persisted.

"She is going well also," John lied.

He remembered the week before when he had told her that he was moving out. At first he thought she had taken it well, but later that night he had found Mrs. Hudson crying to herself on the duvet.

"Must you leave?" she had asked him.

"I think you understand why I have to," John replied, almost as a plea.

"No, I really do not."

John had stared at her for a long time; she stared back, unblinking though her tears.

Frustrated, John had wiped all of the papers, books and other odd items off of the table nearest to him, the papers floating through the air before softly, quietly landing on the floor. He then slammed his fist onto the table and braced both hands against it to support himself, setting his cane along the edge.

"Because I can't stand the shadows anymore, Mrs. Hudson," he had said, refusing to look at her, to see her reaction to his fit of distress. "I can't stand to stay here anymore. The memories, they haunt me. Every time I look at that damn skull I see him there, pacing back and forth muttering to himself. Every time I go to open the bloody refrigerator I remember the body parts he would keep in there. Hell, even those damn bullet holes in teh bloody walls have me remembering! I can't do it. I just...I can't. Not anymore."

John remembered how he had stared at the table as Mrs. Hudson stood and walked towards him. He had heard her stop and hesitate near him and he imagined her reaching out her hand to comfort him before pulling it away and walking out of the room.

They had barely talked since then.

"John?" Lestrade said, breaking though John's reminiscing. "I...I actually came here for a reason. I need to talk to you about something."

John closed his eyes before opening them slowly. Meeting Lestrade's gaze, John plastered a pleasant smile on his face.

"Yes?"

"It's about the phone call, John," Lestrade said, his words cutting into John's facade.

"What phone call?" he asked, though he knew exactly what Lestrade was talking about.

Lestrade hesitated before answering.

"His last call, John. Sherlock's last call."

John closed his eyes again and the images swam against his eyelids. Sherlock standing on the edge of the building, his coat billowing in the wind. The sight of his flailing body as he jumped. His best friend falling.

"What about the call?" John said brusquely, opening his eyes, though blurry images still haunted him at the back of his mind.

"There's still an investigation going on, John...we need as much information as we can get. What did Sherlock say to you before he jumped?"

"What is there to investigate?" John replied coldly. "It was suicide. End of story."

"We did find Moriarty's body lying dead on the roof also, Dr. Watson," Lestrade replied stiffly.

"Another suicide, if I remember correctly," John said bitterly. "Maybe they had a suicide pact, had formed their own little cult where they would both kill themselves together," he mocked.

John knew he was being petty and deep down he didn't believe what he was saying, but he didn't care. Suddenly it was as if there was a pot of water inside of him, boiling, with nothing to stop it from spilling over.

Shocked, Lestrade tried to calm him down. "John, you were Sherlock's friend-"

"Sherlock was nothing but a fake. A fake!" he spit out. "He was a hateful and narcissistic human being. He was selfish, lacked emotion, and cared about nobody but himself.

"He called me, and he told me to watch as he fell...he made me watch it, Detective Lestrade, do you understand? And before he jumped he told me to tell everybody that he was a fake, a liar. That he wasn't actually a genius and that Moriarty was just created by him for fun. Can you believe that, Detective?" John asked, his tone turning condescending.

Lestrade tried to interrupt him, but John wasn't finished.

"Don't ever, ever mistake interest for friendship, Lestrade. For I was a toy to Sherlock Holmes. He played with me like a cat plays with a mouse. I meant less to him than a penny means to a millionaire. I don't believe you need another analogy to understand, Detective.

"So please, spare me the bloody bullshit about how Sherlock Holmes actually cared for me, because I know now that he never did. If he had, he would not have jumped off of that damned building. He would be with me here, now, instead of in the bloody ground."

Suddenly drained of energy, John hunched over his cane.

"Now, if that is all, Lestrade, I will be on my way," John said, refusing to meet his eyes. "I bid you a good day."

And with that John tuned on his heels and limped the rest of th way down the street to 221B, leaving Lestrade to stare at him sadly before turning his back and walking in the opposite direction.

Nearby, the man on the bench folded his newspaper neatly in half before standing. He looked in the direction the man with the cane had gone, and he watched as he let himself into an apartment down the street.

Turning in the other direction, the man walked away, flipping his coat collar up and shoving his hands into his pockets.

Just then, the sky opened up and rain gushed through in torrents, cold to the skin. As it fell, the rainwater mixed with a single tear that slid down the man's ckeek as he walked away.

Silently, he disappeared into the crowd of people like a shadow.

A/N: This story started out with the idea of being just by itself, but I've been sort of developing a plotline in my mind. If I continue, I have absolutely no idea where the story is going. Feedback would be great! Thank you for reading.