Sherlock opened the door to Baker Street, knowing that Mrs. Hudson would be waiting for him. She'll want to know how he is—John. His shoulders slumped.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the top of the steps. "Sherlock, how is he?"

"Not good. He's still rambling on about Mary, a baby, and my psychotic third sibling."

"But you don't have another sibling, do you?"

"No, John has clearly gone insane."

Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes. "Oh Sherlock, don't say such things."

"John, has gone off the deep end and it's all my fault. I should have let him known I wasn't dead."

Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, dear, that would have been ideal. John was never the same after that terrible day. He took your suicide so hard, blamed himself for not seeing the signs."

Sherlock didn't reply. He walked over to the fireplace put a piece of paper on it, then stuck a knife through it.

"What's that dear?"

"John's diagnosis." Then he collapsed in his chair, looking at the empty one opposite him.

"Sherlock, who is Mary again?"

Sherlock looked up at her in irritation. "Some nurse at the hospital that he took a fancy to. He claims that she was shot and that they had a child together."

"Oh my, he really has gone off the deep end, hasn't he? Oh, Sherlock, this is terrible. Well, at least he has the best of care in that private facility you have him in. Is there anything I can get you?"

Sherlock waved her off, not wanting to admit out loud that John's diagnosis lay stabbed in a pile of unsolved cases and unanswered letters—dead letters. He then took a thumb drive out of his pocket, fingering it before he inserted in his laptop, but before the laptop powered up he had to put in a call to Mycroft.

Mycroft looked at the incoming call. What had Sherlock gotten himself into now? He picked up the phone, smiling the condescending smile he always did when Sherlock called. "Yes, brother mine? What is it?"

"I need you to come around to Baker Street as soon as possible."

"Why? I'm busy today. Can't this wait?"

"No, and it's something that can't be discussed on the phone."

Mycroft sighed. "Fine, I'll be there as soon as I can." Then he disconnected the call, looking down at the phone with a frown.

Sherlock lifted the lid of his laptop, knowing that once he accessed all the information on John Watson that he would be opening the equivalent of a Pandora's box. He skimmed through all the information regarding John's childhood, his military service, etc., until he came to the part about John's breakdown. Then he closed his eyes, went to his mind palace, imagining what it must have been like.

Sherlock's Mind Palace Subject: John Watson. Deductions: The nature of John's Breakdown.

John looked at his computer screen, drawing a blank. How could he write about Sherlock's funeral to a bunch of strangers? How could he tell them of what Sherlock had meant to him? The loss was unbearable. It felt like a heavy stone upon his chest, threatening to crush him. He shut the lid to his laptop, letting his blog go along with everything else. The one thing that gave him comfort was keeping a journal.

John's Journal

I moved my things out of Baker Street today and rented a flat on the other side of town. Bills keep coming in. Some I pay and some I don't. I know I'm drinking too much. My therapist suggested that it might help if I were to keep a private journal. She's full of shit. It doesn't help. I kept a blog at her suggestion and look where that got me. It brought me nothing but pain and misery. It brought me Sherlock, the epitome of pain and misery.

It's been days since I've written. I got a job across town at a clinic. Sarah recommended me. She's married now, probably thanking god that she dodged a bullet by dumping me. There's a nurse there named Mary. I like her.

I went on a date with Mary last week. She's agreed to see me again; although I don't know why. When I laugh with her it makes me feel more alone and I'm not sure why. Why? Why Sherlock, why?

Today was a bad day. A young man came in that looked so much like Sherlock that I almost lost it. I thought maybe it was all a trick and that he was still alive. Mary held my hand while I cried in the breakroom. She is quite lovely.

I haven't been able to sleep the last couple of nights. Mary and I went to bed together for the first time. I could have performed better.

Mary broke up with me. She said she had a family matter to attend to. Maybe it's because I told her that I couldn't commit to anything right now, not while I am still grieving. She understood; at least that's what she said. Then she just quit her job and left, but then that's what people do. They leave, they die, they let you down.

I went by St. Bart's yesterday. I shouldn't have gone. I spent the whole time pacing on the sidewalk, wondering when your blood washed away. I knelt, not to pray, but to look for just a small drop of the precious fluid that leaked from your wounds that day. Precious, that's a laugh. You thought nothing of the people who loved you, Sherlock. You're a fucking loser. A police officer asked me to leave and that's when the trouble started. I became enraged and lost all reason. I was told that I hit him. Jail, not my favorite thing, but then I am so dead inside it hardly matters where I am anymore. The magistrate felt sorry for me, I could tell. I got sentenced to anger management classes. They're bullshit. I'm not angry. I'm grieving and I can't seem to stop the fear and anxiety that plagues my every step. My boss looks at me funny and I think I'm getting fired. My pension check is late and I think that I've been cut off. I hear voices and my dreams are terrifying. The drugs they've given me have only made things worse. All I do is sit and do crosswords all day long and when I read my answers the lettering is off. Nothing makes sense.

I got let go today.

Sherlock looked away from the computer screen. The entries stopped. The next day John got locked up in a facility. The police found him on the roof of St. Bart's screaming 'SHERLOCK, DON'T BE DEAD. PLEASE FOR ME, JUST ONE MORE FUCKING MIRACLE. JUST ONE.'

John what did I do to you?

I hear Mrs. Hudson greeting Mycroft. I wait until he enters the room, then before he can go on the defensive I ask him, "Did we have a sister?"