Sherlock AU – John keeps a journal of his life starting after the third month of Sherlock's death. **Trigger Warning: Talk of depression, suicidal thoughts, eating problems, etc.

Still the Only One

Out of everything Sherlock left behind in this life, is it bad that I took some of the smaller things? The items that wouldn't mean much to others? I didn't keep much. The skull (otherwise known as Billy), his cigarettes, his chair, and a couple of his books. They're all I wanted. All I kept with me. Everything is back in 221B Baker Street, just as he left them – other than what I kept, of course. Excluding his coat and scarf – I took them too. In fact, I wear them each time I go on a case. I don't care that it is too large for me. I wear them, and I will never stop. Not as long as I live. I have to feel like the events a couple years ago didn't happen. I need to feel like he's still her.

I have to pretend that I was able to save him. Prevent the fall.

Dammit, look at me. It's been three months and I still don't bloody know how to cope. I honestly don't think I can accept the fact that he's gone. I probably never will. Believe me, I've tried. I can't. I don't know if it's sorrow, or just plain guilt that won't allow me to let go. I mean, he saved my life the day we met – but why was it that when he needed me most, I let him down? I couldn't repay him the favor. But god, I would do anything to have him back.

These past couple months have been hard. They've been lonely. I can't bring myself to eat much. My depression is back. Occasional suicidal thoughts. I've done a complete 360. I went right back to my life before I met Sherlock...and I hate it. My girlfriend has tried helping me as much as she can. Mary...she talked me to going back to therapy. She's had to call me during the day to be sure that I've eaten. She tells me "Sherlock wouldn't want you to be upset over his death, would he?"

But I can't help it. Old habits die hard, I guess.

I've lost weight. Apparently it's noticeable. Mary and Mrs. Hudson are always getting after me to get help. Professional help. More than just therapy. They've been so worried lately and...honestly, I don't blame them.

I'm scared.

It's been harder and harder to get up in the mornings. All I want to do is lay there and pretend that everything is okay. Pretend that the fall never happened. Moriarty was not real. Sherlock was alive. He's just sleeping. Pretend that I'll see him as soon as I get up.

But I know that's just another lie. I know that I can't keep living in this 'fantasy land' in my mind, but why not? It's a better life. So much easier.

I go on cases now, as I've already mentioned. Maybe they're not all that big and exciting like the ones with Sherlock. Maybe I'm not as good at deducing as Sherlock was. Maybe...maybe I miss things. But I have to keep those memories with my best friend alive, and if this is a way to do that, then dammit, I'm going to do this. I am doing this. For Sherlock. Like everything else.

I still talk to Lestrade. He likes to check in on me and bring in some things from the old cases with Sherlock. Stuff like The Woman's phone and even a DVD he made me for my birthday last year, talking about how my friends don't actually like me. You know...good old Sherlock. He always pulled stunts like that, and no matter what, it always made me laugh in the end. I rarely got angry about it. I know that he always tried to show he cared, and if that's how he did it, then why should I be angry? I sort of always figured some people didn't exactly... enjoy my presence. It wasn't exactly that hard to understand.

I moved out of 221B. I'm living with Mary now, and we're quite happy for the most part. See? I'm honestly trying to move on, but everywhere I look, I see him. I pass by Scotland Yard? He's there. I walk down Baker Street? He's there. I look at Mary?

He's there.

Why? I have no idea. He just...is. He's everywhere.

I was talking to Mary the other day and...I think I want to go back to the war. She got upset, saying things like "I won't let you go", "Don't leave me", "I love you". Mary says that I could get myself killed if I go, and I can't help but think 'But what if I did?'

I'd be with Sherlock, wouldn't I? I...I'd see him again. I'd see my friends that passed away in Afghanistan. My parents. I don't care to die. But I am afraid. Would it hurt? Did it hurt Sherlock? Did it hurt Moriarty? God, I hope it did hurt that last one. I hope he was in unbearable pain. But I know he wasn't. He had to have died very quickly...almost instantly. I wish it would have taken him much longer to die.

I know he's dead, but I want him to feel the same exact pain I felt and still feel. He took away my life. He took away his own. Most importantly, he took away Sherlock's.

But what if I did die? What if I just ended it now? Is there something after this life? If not lost family and friends, then what is it?

Maybe that's it. Maybe there's nothing. Just a dark abyss. Maybe it'll be peaceful. That sounds wonderful right now – peace. Calm. Nothing. Maybe that's what I need. All of this pain will be over with. This life. Gone. Done. Nothing else.

It looks like soon, there will no longer be a consulting detective in the world. As of right now, I'm the only one and...I'm done. I'm done with everything.

Sherlock, I'm coming.

The next morning, John Hamish Watson was found by Mary in the bathroom of their small home. His cheeks were tear stained, and he was surrounded by a pool of blood. Suicide. He killed himself. Mary covered her mouth with her hands and fell on her knees, desperately trying to wake John up. "John!" she had yelled, "John please! Please wake up!"

Tears fell down her own cheeks. "God...please no..."

On the sink was a small piece of paper with one name written on the top – Mary. He had written her a note. It was a simple note that read I'm sorry.