Summary:

After the fall John is certain that the memory of Sherlock will kill him slowly and painfully. Every corner, every spec of dust, every mark he came across filled him with unease, because that was all there was left of Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than dust floating away from John.

He doesn't know how to move on with his life. That is until his birthday arrives and Lestrade brings him over a box of Sherlock's old things. As he sorts through the stuff he comes across a business card for the infamous LACUNA facility - and he realises the solution to not being able to move on from Sherlock. He needs the memory of the man removed from his brain, scourged from his memory, cut out like a tumor.

What he doesn't realise is that somewhere in the depths of Serbia Sherlock is very much alive, fighting his way to get back to John. By the time that Sherlock does make it back to London, the John Watson that is there to greet him is a far colder, harder version with no recollection with his time with Sherlock whatsoever.

A/N: So this was inspired by a post QuirkyGown shared with me on Tumblr. It's a sort of crossover between the BBC Sherlock verse and the film "Eternal Sunshine Of A The Spotless Mind" and will contain elements from both universes.

John didn't know how much more of this he could take. His obsession with Sherlock had been worrying enough when he'd been alive, but now he was gone...and the obsession was still there.

John used to always fuss over him, worrying when the man didn't eat or sleep enough, always patching up Sherlock's post case injuries, and rushing to Sherlock's side at the drop of a text.

His willingness to do anything for Sherlock had ruined any potential relationships, infuriating John to no end. No matter how much Sherlock had run John ragged though, underneath it all he hadn't really cared, because his flatmate had been able to offer him so much more than an ordinary relationship would. In many ways Sherlock Holmes had saved him, had given meaning to his life.

John hadn't known it back then, but Sherlock had become a drug; one that was necessary for both his mental and emotional health. Those were the days where he lived for the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through their veins, just the two of them against the rest of the world. When he was by Sherlock's side he felt alive, like the genius ignited something inside John, allowing him to feel so much bigger than he actually was.

It had taken John far too long to realise how co-dependent he'd become, and how life without Sherlock was unthinkable, and utterly un-doable. He'd forgotten about the little things that made up his day. Even the small, rare moments of peace that he shared with Sherlock each morning over breakfast had become a staple part of his life. Those moments were always like the calm before the storm, providing him with happiness, and was probably the closest John had ever come to achieving domestic bliss; reading the paper, sipping at his morning cuppa, Sherlock sat opposite him biting into his toast.

The silence would stretch out between them, but it hadn't been an awkward silence, but a natural one that settled around them like a comfort blanket. Occasionally their toes would brush together, and as they reached across the table their elbows would knock, their fingers dancing tantalizingly close to one another. It'd been like their bodies had been performing a strange sort of dance.

This hadn't been a normal way to act around a housemate, and it should have bothered John a bit more than it did, but it felt so right that he'd allowed those tender touches to continue.

In the months that came prior to the fall, to Sherlock's untimely death, the man had become more and more tactile. He would place his hand on John's shoulder and squeeze it, rub his hand down John's back if it decided it was going to play up, cool hands touching John's face whenever he did something that was clever. Some of the touches had been so feathery and affectionate that John came to question Sherlock's intentions after a while, and then those same questions fell upon himself, as he began to return several of the gestures.

When he realised that the Moriarty case was not going in the direction they wanted, it brought all of those feelings to the forefront of his mind. It's funny that you don't really start to think about these things until you realise what might be taken away from you. He didn't sleep much whilst the trial was taking place, too worried about Sherlock's safety, and too wound up by his thoughts and messy emotions.

He knew that he loved Sherlock, would do anything for him. Hell, he'd agreed to die by a poolside because he'd felt so loyal to the man. John would've instantly take a bullet if if meant keeping Sherlock out of harms way. But was he /in/ love with Sherlock? It wasn't that John hadn't had desirous thoughts about men in the past, but love had never been part of that, only attraction. It was strange to think Sherlock Holmes could be the first ever man that John really, truly loved. At the time, despite the hell that was taking place, John's heart had soared with happiness at his new revelation.

He'd wondered what Sherlock would say to him if he told him what he was feeling. He considered that Sherlock might already have known about the internal battle John had been facing, and either said nothing out of politeness, or simply because he was disinterested. On their first case together Sherlock had stated that he was married to his work, but time had progressed since then, and minds do change, don't they?

Their relationship had evolved in a rather backwards fashion. First they became flatmates, then colleagues, then friends, and John would go as far as to say Sherlock had become the best friend he'd ever had. Their evolving connection held so many possibilities in front of them at arms length, and John had found himself on many a night thinking "what if" or "could they?" Those thoughts would keep him wide awake, taunting him, and when he at last did find sleep his dreams consisted solely of Sherlock.

It had become painfully obvious to John that his heart was yearning for Sherlock. He didn't want to go on dates anymore, instead solely investing in Sherlock. It already felt like they were in a sort of relationship. They did everything that lovers do, bar the romance and the sex. But that didn't mean that their relationship felt like it was lacking anything. In fact it was quite the opposite, as John had never felt so completed in his life. The slippery slide into accidentally forming a less than platonic bond with Sherlock was an easy act in itself. The line that stood between them was thin and barely existed, and all John had to do was step over it.

He wanted to tell Sherlock about all of the lingering thoughts that had been occupying his mind. That's when he found himself handcuffed in a darkened room with the man, his heart thundering in his chest, as the situation they had found themselves in was so tense, he'd wanted to tell him. He'd needed to somehow comfort Sherlock, reach out to him, let him know that he was loved by John and that John would always protect him for that reason alone.

In that moment, before Kitty showed up, John reached out to Sherlock. It was awkward and a bit of a fumble in the dark, but somehow John managed to pull the younger man into a firm hug. Their chests pressed up against each other, heaving with a mixture of adrenaline and uncertainty, and their hands found each other.

"John?"

"Mmm. Yeah, Sherlock?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you a hug, you pillock. I figured we could both do with one after that police chase."

John hadn't know it back then but this was going to be the last ever embrace he'd have with Sherlock. If he'd know that he would never have let him go. He would have spent more time focusing on how warm and solid Sherlock felt against him, how right it felt where John's fingers slid in between the gaps in Sherlock's hands, and he would have counted each and every one of Sherlock's heartbeats.

He can still hear Sherlock in that memory sometimes. The memory is repeated on days where John is overcome with grief.

"John," Sherlock's voice shook, and sounded un-Sherlock like. "This has to end at some point."

"End? Sherlock…what?"

John's grip had tightened on Sherlock so firmly he caused the man to gasp aloud. Fear gripped him tight in his chest, because Sherlock was never meant to be like this. He wasn't meant to sound so small, so defeated, and his voice was always meant to remain steady and rational. Right then Sherlock sounded neither of those things. He sounded scared, voice small like a young child, and that made John feel physically sick.

Because if Mr emotional range of a teaspoon was frightened of what was happening, John was certain that the whole world was about to come crashing around their ears. John liked being right about most things, because it made him seem clever, but this time he wished he had gotten in wrong. If only that had been the case.

"Us, John." Sherlock told him, not backing out of the hug, even though John was squeezing a bit too tight. "I'm talking about us. That's what this is all about."

That one simple word sped John's pulse up to an ungodly speed. It filled his head until it felt like his mind was clogged with cotton wool. With each gush of blood that beat against his eardrums he could hear the echo of the word. Us. Sherlock said that there was an us, but had he meant it the way that John had come to hope?

John had no time at all to comprehend Sherlock's words, as the sound of keys rattling permeated the air. Sherlock sprung back from John, sliding awkwardly on the sofa, as though they hadn't been hugging at all. Then Kitty walked through the door, and the whole "Moriarty is an actor" escapade happened. This was the moment, John is certain, that marked the catalyst that would lead Sherlock to his death.

Most of all, however, he blamed himself for his best friend's suicide. If only he had stayed by Sherlock's side, if only he hadn't spat "you machine" at him before leaving him alone and vulnerable, and if only he had gotten to the scene a moment sooner to stop him from jumping.

John was certain that the guilt was the thing that would kill him. With each moment that ticked by, each pointless day, his thoughts would drift back to watching Sherlock jump. He berated himself for acting so cruel to Sherlock, for being the exact opposite of what Sherlock had needed. He should have known that Mrs Hudson being shot was a trick, should have seen through the mask Sherlock put up in his final moments, and he should have been supportive of his friend. Instead of all the words of love and affection that had been building inside him for months now, he had turned around and said two vile words in anger, and it had killed Sherlock.

John killed Sherlock. He killed him. He sent him to his death. He is the reason the world is a darker, bleaker place. He should have stopped it, stepped in. Hell, he should have been the one to take Moriarty's fall, not Sherlock.

The guilt he felt when the…incident…first happened, was growing inside him. The emotion that weighed on him so heavily started to multiply and filled each and every one of his cells, like an aggressive form of cancer.

John was certain that given time, just like cancer, it would bring death to him. That is if time itself didn't kill him beforehand. Now that there was no Sherlock, no cases, and no excitement in his life his days became empty and meaningless. He went to the clinic and took on a few hours, but he found no joy in being a doctor anymore, and found more and more of his time was spent staring at the clock hooked just above his GP office door.

Tick. Tock. Tick.

The hands moved at a torturous speed. And as his eyes followed those movements, his mind would drift to thoughts of Sherlock. Not good thoughts. Not the happy memories of their time together, but the death and the fall, the bad memories and the pain outweighing anything that had come prior to that. The most prominent memory that stood out in his mind, the one that weighed on his soul the most, was the last conversation that John had had with Sherlock on his mobile phone.

"John."

"Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."

"No. I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask. Please."

John hadn't questioned it. He was used to Sherlock asking things of him, and John willingly listened. This time he should have stuck to his his guns, ignored the small "please" that the detective had given him, and gone up to the rooftop to stop Moriarty himself. Every time he thinks back, he berates himself for listening to Sherlock. Just this once John should have followed his own instincts. Perhaps then he would have been able to stop Sherlock from jumping. He might have put his own life in danger, but he didn't care. If John had the opportunity to do a do-over then he would put himself in Sherlock's place every time.

"Stop there."

"Sherlock?"

"Okay. Look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh god."

"I…I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this?"

"What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

"Wh-what?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock…"

His stomach had twisted itself into a tight knot. The palm that was pressed against the mobile phone became slick with sweat, and his heart had beat so fast it made him feel physically nauseous. This was wrong. Those words were definitely said by Sherlock, but they weren't /his/ words. He was certain that Moriarty was behind the scenes of the call, pulling the strings, forcing Sherlock to say and do things like a puppet. It was sickening. Sherlock should never have sounded that lost and unsure of himself.

He'd wanted to run from the spot he'd been standing on, even then, but Sherlock had asked him to stay. He stupidly listened. He'd been a fool. Perhaps if he'd acted upon his fears the moment he knew something was terribly wrong then he could have prevented anything further coming from the words "I'm a fake"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly…in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met…the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

"No. All right, stop it now."

John didn't believe it for a moment. He'd lived with Sherlock, he'd shared an intimate life with him. Sherlock, the man who barely had any concept of personal space, wouldn't have been able to lie to John for so long. Their lives had become intertwined, and John had witnessed Sherlock's genius first hand, had watched Sherlock solve puzzles that even bamboozled Scotland Yard. He would never bring himself to believe that Sherlock had been a fake.

To him Sherlock's brilliance would never fade. And perhaps that's why what happened, following Sherlock admitting he wasn't that clever, hurt so much. It was because Sherlock fell to his death genuinely thinking he wasn't brilliant. In normal circumstances John would have exclaimed that Sherlock was "amazing" and the detective would glow with pride. But John hadn't had time to compliment Sherlock , and the last real thing he'd said before the phone call had probably caused Sherlock to think he was less than brilliant. It hurt to think Sherlock died thinking so lowly of himself, but hurt even more that John had only added fuel to the fire with his "you machine" remark.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"All right."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do What?"

"This phone call -it's, er…it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't."

John had seen good men die in horrific ways, but until this point he'd never witnessed a suicide first hand. Had someone shot Sherlock then John would have been able to possibly save him, had he been wounded he could have gotten his head wrapped around the logic of the death, but watching Sherlock fall - and choose life over death - was another matter entirely. It made no logical sense that such a brilliant soul chose to die, took his own life into his hands, and ended his life in such a messy and horrifying way.

Sherlock spread his arms wide and tilted forwards. There was a fractional moment of silence as his body became a blur of flailing limbs, coat billowing out behind him, curls whipping in the gush of air. The scream of his best friends' name died in his throat, and his legs felt like dead weight below him, as he watched Sherlock collide with the ground.

He couldn't bring himself to believe what he'd witnessed. He had to make sure, so he pushed forwards, surging towards the spot where Sherlock's body had connected with. It was all a bit of a blur - the world moving at a chaotic speed - so when the bike unexpectedly hit him he was out of action for a good few moments.

Then like a man on a mission he'd scrambled up and over to the small crowd of paramedics and medical staff. They were circling Sherlock like bloody vultures, making it almost impossible to get through, but when at last he did, his knees collapsed beneath him.

"Please…he's my friend…let me through." He reached across, trying to get his fingers to find a purchase on the man's pulse point. He managed to brush the skin lightly with his fingertips. When his fingers connected with nothing, no pulse, no life, it was like his world came crashing down around him.

As the turned him over, John caught a glimpse of the face, and his heart had shattered inside its cage. It's a image that will always haunt him. Battered, bloody, barely recognisable. But god, the eyes, those bloody eyes, had killed him. They were just as beautiful as John remembered them being, but instead of the spark that usually flickered in them, that tiny flame of brilliance had been extinguished.

"Jesus no…oh god no."

In his dreams those eyes ask only one question. The question eats him up inside each and every day. The eyes ask "why?"

Why did Sherlock have to die? It was pointless. Stupid. It should never have happened. But it did, and John can't forget it. Each time he closes his eyes he sees his dead friend, his very- almost sort of love. Whenever he makes an attempt at moving on he finds himself remembering what he is moving on from. The pain was starting to become unbearable. If John didn't do something about it soon, then he was certain that it was going to kill him.

It wouldn't be a quick death, either. John was certain that it would be a slow, painful one. Sherlock Holmes still had a tight grip on him and he was taking John down to the grave with him.