The seemingly ever-present rain pattered softly at the smudged glass of the office windows.

"John, I know… I know this is hard for you. I know it may seem..." Ella shook her head the slightest bit, "It's been three months."

John sat with his legs crossed, and his eyes closed, choking down- no. Sherlock Holmes was not reason for his tears. The selfish bastard. John opened his eyes, only to turn away.

"I know. I know how long it's been."

"Moving on is an essential part of dealing with loss."

"How?"

"Sorry?"

"How can I move on? He left me with nothing! Even his bloody note was a phone call! I… Has it never crossed your mind that maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe I don't want to move on. Perhaps I want to hold on to what little of him I have left."

"He would have wanted you to move on. What was it you told me his last words were?"

John pursed his lips, and closed his eyes.

"'Goodbye, John'" He forced out.

"He was telling you to let go. He was saying goodbye, and hoping you would do the same."

"Bloody awful way to tell me that."

"What would you have said?"

John glanced up.

"Hmm?"

"If you knew you were going to die, what would your last words have been? If you had to let a loved one know how you were feeling."

John didn't need to think, but pretended to contemplate the inquiry. Biting his lip, he lied, "I don't know."

He had to lie. Was there anyway to tell somebody that the last word he wished to utter before his death was 'finally'?