I.

"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John."
"No. Don't-!"

John Hamish Watson watched his best friend, his soul mate, and his secret lover, fall to his death. Sherlock Holmes's death. The great consulting detective's death. His suicide. This wasn't right, Sherlock dying wasn't right. John felt his legs move by themselves, his mind replaying the image of Sherlock falling down from the roof, again and again.

BAM!

Something had hit him. John opened his eyes, looking confused around himself, unspeakable pain thundering in his head. He had been hit by someone on a bicycle. He didn't mind. He raised himself up from the ground, not caring about the whole world being fuzzy and staggered his way towards his friend. Sherlock bled, red blood poured out of his head, painting his alabaster skin red. People had gathered around his friend and John made his way through them. "He is my friend..." he repeated twice, not recognizing his own voice, and fell on his knees beside Sherlock, putting his fingers on Sherlock's wrist, wishing for a pulse but not feeling any. Everything shattered and became black.

II.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so... there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop, just stop this...", John begged at his grave, feeling the lump in his throat that made breathing harder, that always reminded him of the fall. Sherlock falling to his death flashed before John's eyes. He grunted sorrowfully and one single tear rolled down his cheek. He hadn't been able to cry and still wouldn't be able to. This was just a one timer – he promised himself. John turned his back to the grave and started walking to the bus stop. Suddenly, an extreme pain exploded inside his chest, making the army doctor to fall to his knees with his hand clenched to the left side of his chest. John didn't think, he didn't care about what was happening with him. It was just like the war in Afghanistan, he didn't care if he was going to die or not. And what would be better than dying now, when his only purpose for even feeling alive was gone?

Minutes flew by and the only thing John could feel was the excruciating pain, throbbing inside of him, he didn't see anything, everything was white and blurred out. But then, there was something in all this blur that he actually did recognize. This something was Sherlock. He was sure of it. His Sherlock. His friend. His lover. Sherlock lifted him up and John felt an unspeakable relief wash over him, he was home. Home was Sherlock. John knew that this was death, he was going to embrace it as long as Sherlock stayed at his side.

III.

John slowly woke up, not knowing where he was or what time or day it was. Wasn't he dead? Hadn't he been reunited with Sherlock? He automatically moved his gaze to his arm to look at his wristwatch but the watch wasn't there. He frowned while fear started to build up inside of him.

Beep … beep … beep … beep beep beep beep...

John turned his head around and saw a heart monitor on his left that made all the beeping noises, he suddenly realized that he was in hospital. Why was he in hospital? Why did he have a heart monitor connected to him? Where was Sherlock? The questions rushed around in the doctor's confused head, forcing the heart monitor to beep faster. He became aware that his heart was beating too fast, making his breaths turn shallow. John was about to faint when a doctor came in and gave him sedatives. John felt his head going numb but he was going to stay awake, he needed answers to his questions.
"Where... am... I?", he asked with a hoarse voice full with drowsiness. Why did he ask that? He knew where he was, damn it!
"In St. Bart's hospital.", the doctor answered in a soothing voice. The doctor took a seat beside the bed.
"Why am... I here...? And... Don't lie to me... I'm... a... doctor..." John said, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. The doctor seemed troubled but he gave up.
"You are here because you suffered a heavy heart attack back at the graveyard. You have been operated on, but unfortunately you are in a desperate need of a heart transplantation." the doctor explained somewhat troubled and John almost choked himself, thinking this must be a lame joke made by Mycroft. Everything was just a joke, it couldn't be true.
"H-heart transplantation? Are you joking on me?", John said with a sarcastic laugh and shook his head.
The doctor looked even more troubled and shifted on his seat.
"No, I'm not joking sir. You have been set up in the queue for heart transplantation." he said and John just couldn't believe it. First Sherlock dead and now, not even a week after the fall, he is getting told that he needs a new heart.
"I'm an educated doctor myself and I should know if I need a heart transplantation. Not one of my relatives have had any problems with their hearts and..." John started to slur but the doctor hushed him.
"Please sir, you are in shock and you need to rest. Everything will be fine and we will take care of you." the doctor said and got up from the chair. John stared murderous at the doctor, opening his mouth to say something but his eyelids fell down over his eyes and his whole body relaxed. He fell into a weird sleep.

IV.

John woke up again. He wiped off some drool of his cheek and saw his mobile phone lying on his stomach with a note tucked underneath it. John took the note and unfolded it.

I heard you needed it. You talk in your dreams. - MH

John smiled shortly but the smile didn't reach his eyes. He folded the note and laid it on his bedside table. He put up his phone and looked at the screen. No new messages. He tried to text Sherlock.

I saw you. You embraced me when I was dying or... dead. I don't even know what it was. Damn it! Why did you leave me here, still being alive? Why couldn't I stay with you? - JW

He noticed that the text actually went away into cyberspace. He laughed bitterly, thinking that his mind was just playing a cruel and nasty trick on him. He would wake up soon and when he woke up, he would be in his old flat, lying sweaty in his bed and realize that all these things that had happened to him in the last few months were just dreams. Moriarty wouldn't be real; Sherlock wouldn't be real, nor Mycroft or Lestrade. Not even his so called "heart transplantation" would be real. All of it would just be a play that had only existed inside his damaged head.

Time passed by and John grew sicker by each day. He made it clear that he really was in need of a new heart; the doctors told him that he soon was going to get a new heart, that he could take it easy and relax. But no. No. John didn't believe them. He didn't believe in reality anymore. The only thing he believed in was Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock wasn't there, he would never be there again.

15/7 - 23:03
I am getting sicker by each day. The doctors go on and on that everything will be alright but I don't believe in them Sherlock. I don't believe in anything anymore. There isn't anything left in this world that is worth believing. - JW

16/7 - 00:01
Okay. I lied. The only thing that I believe in, in this world, Sherlock, is in you. I believe in you. But you don't exist anymore. You are lying there, deep under the earth, in your grave with your arms gracefully laid across your chest, with your eyes gently shut, with your mouth closed and your dark curls carefully brushed. You know Sherlock... I have been longing to touch those dark curls, to draw lines with my fingers across your smooth neck, to take a breath of your smell that I like so much. To feel your warm skin against mine, to kiss your forehead when you wake up, to feel your fluttering heartbeat against my hand, to kiss your scarlet lips and look into your blue eyes. I have longed for so long time and now... Damn this is not like me. But you know Sherlock; I don't give a ** anymore. I. Don't. Care. Sherlock... Just come back, I can't cope with this. Come back. Come back. Come back. Please! - JW

18/7 – 21:25
Mycroft is visiting me time to time. He tells me that I'm looking healthier by each day that pass but I don't believe him. He is lying to me. He says all those things just to make me feel better. - JW

18/7 - 21:50
I can feel it Sherlock. It's getting closer. Death is getting closer to me and I will embrace it. I will embrace him like an old friend. - JW

20/7 – 15:25
Mrs. Hudson just visited me, she told me that she has been living at her sisters until now. She told me she cleaned out your apartment. Our apartment. How does that make you feel Sherlock? Does that make you turn in your own grave? She also told me that she put our stuff in boxes and as soon as I get a new heart, I can go get them. I won't get them. The only thing I will get is your coat and sheet. Mycroft said he will come by and give them to me tomorrow. - JW

20/7 – 17:30
The beeps are driving me nuts. I hate them. They beep and beep and beep without a pause. I just want them to shut up and to pull out the cords and destroy them. You would have been irritated by them too. - JW

21/7 – 03:40
I love you Sherlock. I love you with all my injured – and - broken to pieces heart. Why did you leave me? - JW

21/7 – 04:03
I can't sleep. The beeps are just driving me nuts. I hope I will get some more sleep when Mycroft comes by with your sheet and coat, your smell soothes me. Soothes me and my heart. - JW

21/7 – 17:45
Mycroft came and he gave me your sheet and coat. He helped me get your coat on, I have a hard time moving now. My heart flips out as soon as I make the smallest move. I'm glad I'm even able to text you. Me, texting you is like a heart. Without a beat, it can't transfer blood and you die, quickly. Without you, I can't live. I am the heart and you are my beat. The beat that keeps me alive. Or at least you were. -JW

10/8 – 12:07
The doctors... have.. restricted me from writing to you. They said that my phone disturbs the machine that keeps my heart alive, and I told them that "no, the one thing that keeps me alive is my phone." then Mycroft came in, I don't know how he even knew about this, but he said he would sue them if they didn't let me text you, so here I am, texting someone who is dead. But I don't mind. I really don't mind. I will text you 'til I die. And when I die, I will meet you again. - JW

12/8 – 08:09
Today I got the message, the message everyone has been waiting for but me. I'm getting a new heart. The heart is from some lad that died in a car crash, I couldn't care less. He can keep his heart. I don't want it. I want my own heart, my own fragile heart that belongs to you Sherlock. I don't want you to have some other lads heart. I want you to have mine. - JW

14/8 – 10:00
Apparently they are going to operate on me this evening. They are going to connect me to a machine that will keep my blood going around, and then they will remove the heart that belongs to you from me, throw it away, leaving it to rot somewhere. Then they will replace it with the car crash lad's heart. Sounds great, doesn't it? - JW

14/8 – 19:00
One hour left. I wish I could tell them that I don't want this. That I want to die because I want to be reunited with you Sherlock. But they won't listen. Nobody listens to the man with the injured heart that sits on his bed and writes texts to someone that is dead. And is bitter. So utterly bitter. - JW

14/8 – 19:30
I love you Sherlock Holmes. - JW

V.

14/8 – 23:01

"He is dead Sherlock. There is nothing you can do. He died during the operation. His heart was too weak." Mycroft told his brother in a hoarse voice for the fifth time. His younger brother was sitting next to him on the sofa. Sherlock had dyed his hair blonde and flattened the curls out to avoid the public to recognizing him. Sherlock's face was more pale than usual, his cheeks glistening with tears. He had been crying uncontrollably the last couple hours and Mycroft was desperate, he didn't know what to do. He had never seen Sherlock cry before.
"I wish I had arrived sooner, I wish I could have replied to his messages. I wish I... but I couldn't. I couldn't Mycroft." Sherlock cried out but the words died out and disappeared on his lips. He didn't have any more words, not a single word in the English dictionary could express his grief.
"I need to.. I need to see him." Sherlock stuttered and Mycroft gave a nod for an answer. He took his younger brother to the hospital and the doctors let them in without any complaints. Sherlock collapsed over John's dead body; he buried his face in John's neck and let out a shriek filled with grief and pain. Mycroft turned his back to his brother; he couldn't bear seeing him in this state.
"I love you John. I love you. I don't even know what that word means but by god, I love you John. I love you, I love you, I love you. Please come back. Come back. Come back!" Sherlock screamed while tears streamed down his cheeks. But John Hamish Watson would not come back. Sherlock knew what to do. He would join John.

Sent to Mycroft
15/8 – 20:00

I was his beat, and without the beat, the heart can't survive. - SH

Thank you so much Hugh for helping and correcting this!

Don't forget to review! (: ~ erithwolf