Chapter 1

John's eyes were closed for a long time before he noticed he was drifting off. The only reason he realized was when he felt Sergeant Donovan's hand on his shoulder. "You really need to get over the Fake's death. It's been a year."

He cringed at her harsh words, spoken in that heavy, wretched accent. He wanted to spit in her face. Sherlock wasn't a fake, even if he said he was. John must have looked distance, because Donovan squeezed his shoulder.

"We're here to solve cases, not stand around and look sad. Go home for today, but after, if you don't work with us, you won't be able to come back to the force." She waved him away.

John squinted and frowned at her and tightened his lips, but knew what she said was true. It had been a year since he had witnessed his suicide; it shouldn't take this long to get over someone's death. After all, he had witnessed many friends' deaths in the army. Why couldn't he just forget about Sherlock?

John sighed and shook his head. He'd start off by moving out of Sherlock's flat.

John climbed out of the cabbie he had ridden and closed the door. He didn't even bother to thank the driver, because he knew that if he said it, it wouldn't sound kind. He picked the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Sherlock had once held the door for him. Now he had to do it himself.

He ignored the tears that had formed under his eyes and were running down his cheeks. They weren't anything new.

John closed his eyes and huffed a sigh, opening the door to the flat. However hard he tried, he would never stop hearing the distance stringing of a violin. Sherlock's music had been permanently pressed into his memory.

He patted one of the chairs in the room and thought to cover it in plastic. He wouldn't need it. A forceful amount of tears covered his face and John choked on his breath. "Sher-" He paused and inhaled sharply, placing his hand on his forehead.

His head and heart hurt so much. John fell to the ground, still one hand on Sherlock's chair and one hand pressed tightly from temple to temple. He couldn't even put plastic on a dumb chair. Why should he even try to deal with this, when he knew he couldn't? Best to just end it.

John started to breath quickly. Should he follow in Sherlock's steps? Suicide? At least when he died, he would see Sherlock after. A small smile pecked at his lips and a wheezy laugh escaped his lungs. "God, Sherlock. What are you doing to me?"

Mrs. Hudson could deal with all his junk here. She easily once dealt with Sherlock's shenanigans, like a head in the fridge, or thumbs in the drawer, or Sherlock's suicide, so his many belongings wouldn't be anything difficult.

John was feeling giddy. Little giggles would escape at any fast movement, which was every movement for John. He was zipping from one side of the room to the other, searching and searching for his gun.

The last drawer he opened, he froze. Fresh, hot tears poured from his eyes when he saw a picture. His hand went to his mouth and he looked around the room before returning his eyes to the picture. "Oh, God, Sherlock." John's voice was breaking and weepy.

John grabbed the photo of his beloved partner and held it close to his chest, shuffling through the drawer for his gun. If he was going to die, the last thing he wanted to see was Sherlock's face.

John shoved the gun into the inside of his jacket and rushed out of the room, stumbling downstairs and outside. He swiftly hailed a cab and waited while it screeched to a stop.

John could barely even hear what he had said, but somehow knew where he was going. They drove to the ending of Sherlock and his' first case. The university where Sherlock had almost fallen to the cabbie's taunts.

He had gone this way before, felt this way before. Panic. But a certain panic. A panic caused only by the fear of death. Before, he had felt a body crushing, heart stomping, and head cracking panic for Sherlock's life. Now he felt as though he was underwater, blessed with a sweet current of relief.

The driver stopped the car and turned around and looked him up and down. "You okay, mate?"

John huffed a sigh and looked outside, nodding. "Yeah, I'm fine. Charge?"

The driver squinted at him. "Free of charge. Be safe."

John nodded at him and opened the door. "Thanks. Good day." He didn't really care if he spent that money. It would be his last money. Now, a pack of cigarets would be his last purchase. He didn't smoke, he just liked to have a fresh pack around incase Sherlock wanted it..if he came back. Not that he would, it just comforted John.

John looked to the university on the right. That's where Sherlock had almost taken the pill. He quickly made his way to the door and walked into the empty halls. He decided to take his life where Sherlock had almost taken his.

It took him no longer than five minutes to reach the end room of the top floor. The memory of breaking through the other university's similar room was shattering and he broke through, expecting once more to find Sherlock and the cabbie driver.

Instead he found an empty room. Just like before, except the end result would be different. John placed the photo of Sherlock on one of the desks and sat down, staring at it.

He remembered when that photo had been taken. It was their first Christmas together, and Sherlock had fussed over the fact that they had to decorate their tree. Mrs. Hudson had let out a shrill laugh and pushed them together in front of the tree and begged for a photo. She had to take many pictures before Sherlock actually managed a nice smile.

John ruffled his hair and pulled out the gun. He ran the barrel from his neck to his chin and clicked the safety off. His finger played over the trigger and he thought for the first time if maybe suicide wasn't the answer. But a burst of anger rose in his throat. Apparently Sherlock thought that suicide was the answer. Why should he think any differently?

John squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the barrel of the gun against his neck. He wanted to do this so badly. He wanted the pain to be over. John choked out and sobbed wretchedly. He put both hands on the gun, as to assure himself that it would be quick.

"Those ordainments on the tree were not necessary."

John paused. He loosened his grip and opened his eyes, but stared at the table. Could it be true? What would happen when he raised his eyes?

He did. John shot out of his chair and swung the gun to face the man sitting there. "Who are you?" His lips tightened and he frowned at the man. Sherlock. Sherlock just sitting there with sad eyes.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. He paced back and forth, lowering, then raising his gun at Sherlock. Eventually, he pointed his finger at Sherlock and yelled. "I had to bury you!" His voice cracked and anyone could see that he was forcing back tears.

Sherlock looked down with his mouth open. "I know, John. I-" He spoke quietly.

John rushed forward and leaned over the table, gun pressed against the wood. "I had to bury enough friends during the war and then you go and force me to do it again!" He stared into Sherlock's eyes for a moment longer, then pushed off and started pacing again.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and started talking. His voice was tight, off, and unusual. He sounded so guilty. "You're making it sound like I wanted this. I had to do it otherwise I would have to bury you."

John glared at him and sat down in his seat, pushing the gun down the table. He looked at Sherlock's hand. John reached out slowly and wrapped his fingers around Sherlocks'. "I just-I don't understand, Sherlock."

Sherlock reached out to grab John's other empty hand and pulled them to his own. "Better me than you."

"The world would be better with you in it. I'm just a veteran medic. No one needed me."

Sherlock squeezed his hands. "I need you."