a/u: I love Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Laws chemistry, and I love Holmes and Watsons chemistry! Here's what I consider my most depressing story. It's a rewrite, so if you haven't seen the film (don't read this if you haven't) don't expect this to happen..

I watched him tumble over the side of the railing, the calmest of expressions on his face. His brown eyes were at peace, as if he was already mourning his life. I didn't know what I could do. I wanted to reach out, to jump over and grab him myself. I wanted to shout at him not to give up, that there was another way. But really, was there?
Holmes had dedicated everything to this case. He'd do anything to stop Moriarty, especially after what he did to Irene. But his life...I didn't care. The whole world could be destroyed piece by piece by Moriarty, but none of it would ever be worth my best friends life.
"Holmes!" I shouted, too late, he wouldn't hear me. All I could hear was a piercing scream, echoing off the mountains. Mycroft came running through the door behind me, my name slipping from his lips as a question.
I felt utterly and completely lost. Holmes was...gone. Surely the fall had killed him. I found myself gripping the railing, staring down at the waterfall. "Holmes," I whispered. No! He absolutely could not be gone. Gone, gone. No wedding gift to bring him back, no rhododendron leaf to slow his heart beat, not a false hanging, he was gone. Damn Moriarty!
Damn him for taking my friends life! Damn him for ruining mine! I felt the tears slip down my cheeks, tears a soldier should not be crying. But what was the point of being who I was when I had lost one of the most important people in my life? What was the point of carrying on?

MARY

Weeks had passed, yet there was John, sitting in that window seat, staring off into space, tears occasionally leaking from his eyes. Mr. Holmes was his best friend, and lately his only friend. His passing only brought sadness and cruelness into Johns existent. I had no way of getting him out of his rut. What was I to do? He'd never be whole again, because a piece of him was missing. Holmes was missing.
"Mr. Watson, I just got a call, the funeral is in two days," Misses Hudson informed John one morning. She had started working here after Holmes died, away for Watson to feel closer to him.
The bodies had mysteriously disappeared from the falls, making it even harder on John, and after a lost battle, they gave up on finding them, and had prepared the funeral. "Thank you, Misses Hudson," I murmured, giving her a small smile.
"Don't worry, I miss him too." She winked at me, and I smiled wider.
"I just didn't think I would," I admitted, and we shared a small round of chuckles, something I hadn't done in weeks!

WATSON

The funeral had come round. I had heard Misses Hudson speak of it two days ago. Mary and her had laughed about something afterwards, whatever could be funny remained a mystery to me.
People were starting to talk, saying how I was depressed, or I needed help. Did they expect me to be jumping for joy? Happy to finally be rid of the man named Sherlock Holmes?
As I practiced my speech in my head, and the sad music played throughout the church, I suddenly remembered this would be my first time speaking for what seemed like forever. How long had it been now? Two weeks? Funny how time could fly when a loved one had passed.
"Mr. John Watson," the man standing at the front of the room called. "He would like to say a few words." I swallowed the lump in my throat, annoyed to find it still lurking there.
I limped up to the front of the room, tears threatening to fall from my eyes. As I approached the podium, I suddenly felt the worried eyes on me. I cleared my throat and began to read the scrawl off the small piece of paper I held in front of me.
"I was closer to Holmes, then I assume most people are. I knew his methods, his tactics, and the way that twisted mind of his operated. Though I'm sure he knew more of me then I do of everyone in this very room." I finished with the detective aspect of the speech, continuing on to the more emotional parts. "I loved him like a brother. I considered him my brother. My sometime annoying, irritating, erratic brother, but my brother all the same.
"I am lost without him. But Holmes will never be dead to me. He will always be alive, in one way or another." I could feel the humiliating tears roll down my broken face. "Thank you," I whispered, limping off, needing to be as far away as possible.

Months passed, time passed, even when it was impossible, even without my best man by my side. Holmes was gone, I had learned to live with it, but I would never except it. Because truly, you can live with anything, I will not end my life because of another's. That didn't mean I had to except it though. I would not. I would never.
As I wrote each journey Holmes and I went on together, I could feel some of the sadness that I had felt months ago creep back in. I tried my best to keep it out, but sometimes sadness was the key to a good story. Finally, I typed, The End, after a description of exactly how passionate Holmes had been about his work.
Suddenly, Mary came in with a box, clearly delivered by a postman. We exchanged a few words, and she left at last, and I turned to the package. I carefully opened it, and bit my lip when it revealed a small box. I slid the lid off the top, and felt my eyes bulge out at the sight before me.
There was something Holmes had found and spoke of at his brothers home. It was Mycroft's oxygen replacement. I examined it quietly, then shouted to Mary as to who delivered it. "The postman!" she shouted back.
"Did he look a little strange?" I strode out of the room to consult her further.

HOLMES

I came out of the chair, stretching the smallest bit as I recovered from the rather uncomfortable position. I hurried over to read what Watson had just finished writing. I smiled at the wonderful words he used to describe when saying how wonderful a detective I was, and a friend. As I read the last two words, The End, a thought crossed my mind.
The End?
I smiled at the finished piece and hurried once again, to meet what would surely be a furious Watson.
How ever would he forgive me for this?

WATSON

"It's just-" I tried to explain why I was acting so peculiar about the package, when Mary smiled.
"Maybe Mycroft was feeling a bit generous?" a familiar voice suggested. I spun around and felt my face drop in horror. A ghost! Could it be! That face, the hair, the voice, the eyes, the untraditional clothes, the way he held himself.
"Holmes?" whispered I. He smiled crookedly at me, and I found myself running up to him and wrapping my arms around his torso.

a/u: SO, should I continue? I LOVE writing for Sherlock Holmes (especially this piece) it's so fun! I tried to keep it somewhat like the books, but that's rather difficult saying as I am not a English man living in 1886. Should I continue? I want to see your responses to this, so please, review! Should I continue!