"You... 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 and 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 it, stop this..."

John closes his eyes, breaking the wall of moisture blurring his vision, and tears begin to crawl down his cheeks. His face solemn, he bows his head, turns around, and walks back towards the Taxi. Nothing can help him now, not in this moment. In this moment, dying himself would be a blessing too great for fate to allow, though he cannot help but long for it all the same. He feels the weight of his friend's absence in his soul; the inevitable darkness comes creeping in, vanquishing any remnants of light. John knows that he will never be the same again. Thinking back over his time with Sherlock.. ugh that name; He cannot even think that name without feeling the aching, constant agony that Sherlock has left in his place! Sherlock, the man who blew into his life as casually and beautifully as the breeze blows through the early hours of dawn. The man who is more than a man, more than any man could be. The man who saved him from the pits of mental anguish and ignited within him a fire, an excitement for life, a thrill for the future, a friend. More than a friend. A brother? More than that. What is Sherlock? John doesn't even know what their relationship is, he just knows that it is utterly brilliant. Sherlock is utterly brilliant. Yet now he's gone; it's over, finished. That's it. Climbing into the Taxi, John allows the waves of sorrow and emptiness to wash over him. He can fight it no longer.

Tuesday 21st May 2013

It's been a week since Sherlock's funeral, two weeks since his departure. John has spent the majority of the week hiding from the press. Sherlock's 'big revelation' is still front page news and nobody will leave John alone. 'The Fake Genius', 'We've All Been Sherlocked!', they're all wrong. Before Sherlock...jumped, he told John that he'd been lying to him the whole time. He told him that rather than the great detective John believed him to be, Sherlock was a great scam artist. He claimed to have purposely led them all to merely believe that he was solving crimes when, in reality, he had invented the entire thing. Every crime, every death, every loophole and every ploy was supposedly manufactured by Sherlock to draw everyone under the impression that he was a great detective. The problem with this, however, is that Sherlock is too brilliant. John knows Sherlock, he sees him, he observes his ways, takes note of his thought patterns. No, Sherlock isn't a scam artist. Sherlock had to die, or make it look like he had died anyway. Please, God let the latter be the case. But why? What did Moriarty say to him to make him jump? And why did Moriarty shoot himself? Too many questions. If Sherlock was here, he'd know what to do. I wish Sherlock was here, I just want to see him, to look into his eyes and tell him... No. Focus, John! Sherlock, what would Sherlock do? Mind palace. John has no mind palace, Sherlock always told John that he was the catalyst to his genius, but not a genius himself. But...Sherlock is a genius, and John has spent a lot of time around Sherlock. He can't be dead, he wouldn't do that, he can't lose. Mind Palace. John stands, walking towards the window, he takes a deep breath in, taking in his surroundings and then pushing them away, drawing his focus inwardly and as he exhales, he closes his eyes, and thinks.

Moriarty, the code, it's something to do with Morairty.

Assassins, lots of them, all of them keeping Sherlock alive. Yet still they were there, waiting for...something.

Assassins not meant for Sherlock.. But who?

Human weakness; emotion; friendships

Sherlock.. Human?

Mrs Hudson.. Shot, yet Sherlock didn't seem to care.

His reaction to her siege, though, depicts otherwise...

Sherlock knew! He knew she hadn't been shot.. It was a message.

Prophecy. warning. death. emotions. human..

The assassins, they were for him not Sherlock!

And that was it. It must be it. John's knees can no longer hold his weight, not with the weight of this new revelation. Folding in on himself, John kneels at his window, breathing heavily, his eyes stinging, his throat constricting. It was for him that Sherlock jumped. For the sake of his life, Sherlock was willing to risk his own. Oh, Moriarty, you sick little genius. Who else but The Spider would be able to trap Sherlock Holmes in his twisted web of brilliant malfeasance? What a world John has found himself in, what a man he has become. He cannot unsee all that he has seen, he cannot unlive all that he has lived, and neither does he want to. He's figured it out, He's sure of it. But now what? Is Sherlock actually dead or did he come up with a solution? Sherlock always has a solution. No, I can't think like that, he's human, just a man. However, John knows that Sherlock is far more than just a man, and despite his attempts to stay grounded, he can't help but see a small thread of hope in the midst of the fog that surrounds his heart. Sherlock could be alive. Sherlock could be alive!

But, now what? I need to find him. As John stands alone in the empty one-bedroom apartment that he had inhabited prior to his meeting with Sherlock, he looks around himself, at the emptiness that is life without his best friend, and he realizes just how restricted he is, how...ordinary. Where is the beauty in this? Where is the genius? Only from brilliant minds are beautiful dreams personified into outstanding lives. John doesn't possess such a mind. No, John Watson is no Sherlock Holmes; he is completely ordinary. Save for an excellent shooting arm and impeccable posture brought on by his years serving in Afghanistan, he is just a man. Just an ordinary man with an ordinary mind, no clever deduction skills to be seen. Oh, but that's it! For the first time since Sherlock's departure, John Watson allows a brief, yet intentional smile spread from his lips. He may be ordinary, yes, but Sherlock isn't, and Sherlock is what matters here. Sherlock knows John, knows him better than he knows himself most probably. Sherlock wants to find John, he's sure of it, so he'll be thinking like John. Where would John come looking for him? Who, of all people left in the world, do both John and Sherlock trust? Certainly not Mycroft. No, that man sold his brother's life story for worthless information. Lestrade? No. Never trust the police; they're all merely hands. Who? Think, John, think! Who is always there, needed enough to be here but not important enough to be a threat, or a suspect? Who doesn't count? Who doesn't count! Molly! Molly. Neither Sherlock nor Molly knew that John was listening in to that conversation...You can hardly call it eavesdropping. Why, when you have a voice like Sherlock's, you cannot say a word without somebody noticing. John, in particular, always pays very close attention when he speaks how I miss his voice...Snap out of it, John! Molly. John has decided, he must find Molly immediately, she'll have answers, he's sure of it.

John rises, puts on his coat, takes his umbrella and, without a single glance behind him, steps out into the pouring rain. His footsteps are urgent. With each pounding of heel to pavement, John's mind reels around endless possibilities as to Sherlock's condition. He has all but convinced himself that Sherlock still lives. He must live! The evidence is all there. Sherlock Holmes simply cannot die. He cannot! But, what if he's wrong? What if John has a romanticized view of his...friend? What if, what if John is blinded, fooled even, by the genius that seems to seep from the very skin of Mr Sherlock Holmes? As the rain drenches his face, interrupting his breathing and restricting his vision, John cannot tell whether it is rain or tears that are pouring down his cheeks. Nor does he really care. This morning, he believed completely that his best friend was dead and that his own life was over because of it. Yet, right now, John has allowed himself to fantasize about the great Sherlock Holmes. To entertain the possibility of him being all that he says he is, of him being one of the greatest intellectuals to grace the earth. He cannot quite comprehend what is happening, nor why he has suddenly found himself running down the streets of London in the pouring rain at an alarmingly rapid pace when it was perfectly feasible for him to call for a taxi. All that he can think of is Sherlock; I need to get my Sherlock back. As John heaves under the pressure of the wind and rain against his body, he continues to run in the direction of St Bartholomew's hospital.

He checks his watch, 12:45pm. He's not eaten yet, He's not slept in a week or so, not properly anyway. He's starting to resemble Sherlock. He attempts a chuckle, but it gets caught in his throat and he swallows it back down. For some reason, this revelation causes the cavity in his heart to squeeze itself tighter still, so tight that yet more tears start to stream down John's face and from his mouth comes gentle a groan, or a heave. Whatever the noise was, it was expressed in sorrow, agony, regret and anger. If Sherlock is dead, then he has to go back to this morning. He will lose his thread of hope, he cannot, will not live without Sherlock. But, if he isn't dead, then why? Why would he put John through this? I'm supposed to be his friend. Sherlock once told John that he didn't have friends; he had but one. John felt something more than merely privileged to hold this position, he felt like he belonged, like this magnificent man wanted him in his life. Well, he obviously doesn't want me enough to save me the grief of his death. John realizes that he's stopped running. Odd. He raises his head and sure enough, he has found himself standing outside St Bart's. Now, for the truth.