2 years. 1 year since the limp had returned. 2 years since I had seen Sherlock. 3 hours ago I had found Sherlock's scarf. Ten minutes since I had received the text. 1 minute to tie the scarf into a weapon. 1 second to step off the chair. I look at the text that I had received 12 minutes ago. I tugged to make sure the dark scarf would hold. I slip my he's into the noose. 2 years, I waited trying to will the detective through the front door. 1 week since I had been to Sherlock's grave. 4 months since I had worked. I could feel myself falling away, falling when he fell. The sound of his voice. But I could feel my phone in my hand heavy with the weight of the text. It must've been a cruel joke Anderson had played. My time was running out, I could feel it slipping away. I couldn't stall for much longer. Sherlock never stalled, never waited, always jumping on impulse. If he could I could. I stepped off the wooden chair. I tried to gasp for air but just as I hoped the scarf was cutting off my life. The phone slipped from my hand.
"I love you too Sherlock," I gasp just before everything goes black. The phone lay in the ground of 221B Baker Street showing the next that had taken John Watson's life: I love you. - SH