John Watson's life ended with two words, and two words only. It wasn't anything that he'd ever expected that he'd have to endure, or hear coming from the other end of a phone. Sherlock Holmes had just told him that all the rumors and speculations were true, that he was a fraud. Of course John didn't believe it for one second, he knew this was what Moriarty wanted Sherlock to say. But this couldn't be the end. Sherlock was brilliant, he could figure out a way to save himself.

That was what John thought, anyways.

"Goodbye, John."

"Sherlock, don't-" John's fingers trembled around the sides of his mobile phone, squeezing the plastic so hard that his knuckles were quickly turning white. "No, Sherlock!"

Keep your eyes fixed on me, Sherlock had said, but it was hard to do that as he watched his flatmate, his best friend, spread his arms wide and plunge forward off the roof of St. Bart's. John almost didn't believe his eyes for a moment, staggering forward in an almost drunken state, mouth open in shock. He didn't see the cyclist coming from behind him, and as a result, he went down hard when the impact came. His body hit the pavement with a resounding smack, phone clattering to the ground.

It took John a minute or so to regain his bearings, blinking slowly as pain began to ebb, in rushes, through his head. He'd have a massive migraine after this was all over and done with, that was for sure, but for now, only one thing was on his mind. Sherlock. Scrambling to his feet as quick as he could in his current state, John ran to the group of people now gathered around the scene. The police sirens seemed like a mild thrum in the back of his mind, unnoticed and uncared for by the doctor trying to force his way past the crowd.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please." John desperately pleaded, pushing the investigators and such aside. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please."

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could've prepared John for the sight that lay before him. Sherlock, lifeless on the sidewalk, crimson red quickly spreading over the pavement from beneath dark curls. The impact of the bicyclist hitting him seemed to finally take effect, and John groaned as his legs gave out, although he was quick to get onto his knees. He took Sherlock's wrist in his hand, fingers searching for a pulse. None. He made a choking sound in his throat, his hand intertwining with Sherlock's icy one.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

"Nggh, Jesus, no." John tried to stand, but his legs would not work. "God, no."

John watched, in mute horror, as Sherlock's body was put onto a gurney and wheeled away into the hospital, and that was when, at last, tears began to fall from John's eyes, hands resting on his knees as he drowned in his own sorrow. Just like that, Sherlock had been painfully torn from his life, from everyone's lives.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

The funeral was quiet, just himself and Mrs. Hudson. John found it hard to breathe as they stepped in front of the headstone, taking a shaking breath to prevent himself from breaking down. He had to stay strong.

"I . . . I'm angry." he said, his voice stiff as he disturbed the silence between them. "It was . . . cruel."

"It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel." Mrs. Hudson sympathetically patted his arm. "All the marks on my table; and the noise – firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Mm, yeah." John nodded, his eyes shutting as she continued on.

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine – keeping bodies where there's food!" Mrs. Hudson's voice was breaking now, hands shaking. "And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

"Listen, I'm not actually that angry, alright?" John finally looked back over at Mrs. Hudson.

"Okay." Mrs. Hudson released her hand from his arm, blowing her nose into her handkerchief before she spoke once more. "I'll leave you alone to, erm . . . you know."

It was only after Mrs. Hudson walked away that John stepped ever closer to Sherlock's grave, a hand resting on top of the smooth black marble. He never imagined he'd have to see this day, to be here, experiencing this. The entire thing was rather horrible.

"You . . . you told me once that you weren't a hero." John began, his voice slow as he tried to pull himself together, to get his words in the right order. "There were times 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've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so . . . There."

John sniffed deeply, looking over his shoulder once before he looked back down at the grave.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." his voice was tearful now as he took a step away from the grave. "Okay."

He only got as far as off the dirt before he turned back, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't . . . be . . ." John's voice broke then, and his eyes filled with tears. " . . . dead. Would you do . . . ? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

A wordless gesture was made toward the grave before John finally walked away, dragging a hand over his face. It was time to move on. It was time to face reality.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't ever coming back.