Author's note: Please heed warnings, especially for suicide and death. Written after TRF aired so old and very AU. Title taken from the poem, "On Raglan Road" by Patrick Kavanagh. The poem is available in it's sung form on Youtube. My favourite versions are by Luke Kelly (traditional) and Cristin Milioti (more modern).

"I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way"

John Watson was found dead on a Thursday. We have no time of death. His body was discovered by a work colleague and former girlfriend who had wondered when he had been absent, two full days in a row. The flat still stunk of alcohol and smoke but there was no more breath in his body, only a gun in his hand. Desperation could not bring him back. It had been the thing to take him after all.

When Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived on the scene, they denied him access. The whole Sherlock Holmes is a fraud debacle damaged his ranking beyond recognition, the officer deemed "too close" to the illegality of it all to remain unbiased. No one says the same to me. As always, my importance, influence and impact on those lives around me is unnoticed, if I even have any. I can't claim that John and I were good friends; in the grand scheme of things we were probably viewed as little more than acquaintances. Yet as I pull back the sheet to see his face I cry a little because it's sad and we've all had enough of sad in recent years.

It doesn't take a detective to determine how it happened. The wound in his head is obvious and rumours whisper that the CSIs had to pry the gun from his hand. With a funny and probably inappropriate smile, I lift his right hand and bring it up to meet the wound on the same side of his head. I almost expect to see his eyes flutter open in shock and for him to demand to know what I was doing. Swallowing loudly, I replace his lifeless hand back beside his body.

'No need to worry, John. I was just making sure.'

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't answer. After a moment of hesitation I lean forward and peck him on the lips because I need him to know, regardless of his life status.

There are still people in this world who love him.

Lestrade's visit is devastating. His badge earns him few privileges anymore and so he comes to beg for information instead of ordering it as he is used to. When he asks I turn away and my eyes close reflexively.

'I don't think I can do that.'

His eyes burn accusingly and I don't look at him because it hurts to.

'When it was Sherlock fucking Holmes you didn't mind bending the rules. Why is this so different?'

'Sherlock was, Sherlock was Sherlock but you're not. Seeing him isn't going to achieve anything, you know. It won't bring him back and it won't help you solve some mysterious case. There is no case here. I hate to be the one to say it but it's a pretty standard one. He had been drinking and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I get at least two of the same scenario every week. Go home, Lestrade. There's nothing you can do.'

He leaves quietly with his head in his hands. I close the door behind him and my eyes start leaking again.

The sister comes to identify that it is indeed him, a seemingly unnecessary task but I can tell it is important to her. She isn't what I was expecting. I draw back the sheet covering his face and am startled when she laughs.

'Oh, Johnny.' She says fondly, running her fingers along the length of his face. 'Look, we've swapped places! Now it's you that's in trouble. I can't say I enjoy this position very much.'

Afterwards, I offer her some tea. She accepts it quite happily and I immediately regret it.

'He was always the good child, a polite little berk who would make any parents proud. I, we, have always believed it would be me to go first, which tells you a lot considering he was fighting in a war! Can you honestly believe that? He fights in a war with real guns and tanks and stuff and he doesn't get blown up like some overrated hero. After surviving all that bloodshed and violence he goes and offs himself. What a funny old world we live in.'

I agree with a nod because I'm scared to open my mouth and interrupt her.

'I'm the oldest of the two of us, you know. You wouldn't think it, he was so much more mature, always has been. He's been looking after me his whole life when I should have been protecting him. I regret that you know, because it's my fault. I dumped all my shit on him at every opportunity and now I know that he couldn't cope with it. I'm such a bad sister. Bad person all over, really.

'That's him being brave again, though, isn't it? You'd have to be, to have the nerve to, well. Ever the brave soldier, Johnny was.'

Harry Watson breaks down then. Her sobs are the saddest thing I've ever heard and will be imprinted on my brain for ever. Why can no longer be a simplistic question. It holds too much meaning.

Every day John lies in the morgue, people come to see him. The usually empty place is a flurry of tears and tuts over a life gone wrong. His old land lady, Mrs Hudson spends most of the time sniffling. She is already there when I turn up for work on the second day and I don't ask how she got in. I'm sure there is a man somewhere, the puppet master who feels he owes her something due to her relationship with his brother.

The police come and go too. One detective who flashes her ID in my face stands over him saying nothing but, 'Didn't I warn you?' before leaving as quickly as she came.

I make sure to look at all the faces that arrive but the one person I'm waiting for doesn't appear.

John was obviously well loved. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that hundreds turned up for his funeral because they certainly tried to. The church was saved for family and friends but outside a crowd gathered. Uniformed soldiers stood in a guard of honour surrounded by the people that felt they owed something to him; readers of his blog and benefactors of his time with Sherlock. Oddest of all were the few homeless men who stood by the church gate before the service began, moving off when they heard the doors of the church close to keep the cold wind out.

When I sat down in the final row of pews, I didn't take notice of who was seated beside me. It wasn't until he nodded his head in greeting that I realised.

'Morning, Miss Hooper.' He murmurs with the same smile he's had any time I've seen him. I move my head quite stupidly in acknowledgement and he doesn't speak again. I don't cry during the service, even though it is sad, because that would be improper in front of him.

I'm still sitting when most of the congregation files its way out of the church. He excuses himself, standing up to leave too and I remember that I'm blocking his way. Grabbing my bag I move out of the seat and let him pass me in the aisle.

'Wait! Mr Holmes?'

He turns around accommodatingly and asks what he can do for me.

'Where is he?'

Nothing on the face changes as he answers. 'I'm afraid I don't know who you are talking about.'

He bids me farewell like a proper gentleman and I sit back down in my seat. I will not follow everyone else to the grave, because John is to be buried near his best friend and that makes me feel so guilty.

John has been lying in the ground three days when he finally resurfaces in my flat. I knew it was only a matter of time, but I believed it would be shorter. He grabs me by the shoulders and sits me down on the couch, sloshing my red wine all over both of us. He kneels down before me and takes the glass, downing what's left before placing it on the cluttered coffee table. His eyes are wild and for the first time ever, his actions properly scare me.

'Dearest, Molly Hooper. I need you to tell me everything.'

I do, because he is Sherlock Holmes and I've missed him. I tell him the exact level of alcohol we found in John's blood, brush his temple to show him the position of the wound and describe the clothes he was wearing. He is so focused and his voice is full of excitement. Like Sherlock Holmes himself, it's unnatural but I don't have the nerve to tell him so.

When I'm done sharing all I know, he stands and begins to pace around the room. My eyes can't keep up with how fast he moves and a bad feeling rises in my stomach.

'You do know what this means, don't you, Molly? All of this evidence.' He trails off as if the sentence has already lost his attention.

'Sherlock, I don't understa-'

'What could you possibly not understand? All of the logic is there, you just have to look at it. Come on, Molly, really look and tell me you don't see it!'

'I'm sorry, but there's nothing to see Sherlock. The case has been closed, not that there was much of one in the first place. John committed s-'

'No, you're wrong. John Watson would never have taken his own life therefore someone must have taken it for him.'

'Sherlock.'

He continued rocking around my carpet, hands reaching up to pull and tear at the shorter hair where his usual curls were noticeably absent.

'You're in denial.'

He stops.

'Excuse me?'

'He was so cut up over everything, over you. Of course he was capable of doing it! It's you who doesn't understand. You never have. Real people have emotions! You can't just hurt them and expect everything to be ok!'

The hinges crack as the front door rattles in its frame.

It is the last time I ever see Sherlock Holmes. Hardly surprising really. John Watson was his world.

"And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day."