A/N: The title is from the song Pompeii by Bastille. This is sad and there are mentions of Johnlock. You don't have to squint. It's plain. It's there. ANGST. Suicide. (Um, it is about John and Sherlock.)

Once upon a time, I realized something that would eventually mean a hell of a lot more than I ever thought it would. You see, I was a fairly healthy, happy individual…or as happy as one can be with a smile plastered to his face and a limp that was 'psychosomatic' according to my nearly insane flat-mate- who doubled as a consulting detective with something of a sociopath disorder. I was watching him stroll around a dead body when I was hit with my epiphany. And when I say hit, I do truly mean hit.

You see, I had always thought living was for the, well, living. That's not so. Living is for the dying. We're all dying, you see. I had seen this in Afghanistan, when I was a doctor performing on men who had literal holes blown through them. War is a terrible thing, and I had seen more of death than I had ever wished to- only to come home to London and get thrown in with a man who actually danced with happiness at the word 'murder'. We all have psychological issues, don't judge mine- and hell, Sherlock was fascinating to me, okay.

Living was something I was currently struggling to do, every waking breath was another battle to fight. And god, was I getting tired of it. Every time a bus passed between me and Sherlock and the sidewalk across the street, I considered jumping in front of it. The only thing that stopped me was Sherlock.

You see, I wasn't really the emotional type. I had them- far more than the sociopath I was starting to think of as much more than a colleague. He was…frustrating- to the point of me wanting to rip out my greying hair- and irritating and the must utterly emotionally-stunted man I had had the joy of meeting. But, when I got to know Sherlock, I got to know a man who might have actually changed the way my heart beat- if such an idea wasn't so utterly ridiculous and illogical that Sherlock would've laughed his perfect ass off if I had mentioned the notion out loud to him. He never listened, he made me do things I would never have imagined doing, and he was possibly the most driven, lazy bastard in the world. He loved murder- and god knows, if he had been less of a man, he probably would've been a serial killer. He loved mystery- and truth be known, this was one of his more winning traits- to the point of not sleeping or eating till he solved the most recent case we had on our plates. But he was also a demolished man. An addict- apparently, that was one vice he was attempting to get over. A sociopath, as I previously mentioned. And the idea of personal space- other than his own, of course- was not an idea he seemed to be capable of grasping. More than once, I've been awoken to him standing over my bed with his imperially arched brow, telling me to get my lazy ass up, because he needed 'his' blogger. God knows, I've been close to killing that man more times than I'm proud to admit.

But, he'd won me over long before he took that fall.

And that fall…well, that was when I came back to my epiphany that had hit me so few weeks ago- only to be forgotten in the ensuing chaos that seemed to enshroud Sherlock in his enigmatic little cloak that enticed the weak of heart- me- into falling in love with him. It truly wasn't until his lithe, slender, bleak form fell off of that god damn building that I realized I was hopelessly in love.

And that, in that moment, Sherlock Holmes had given me a shove into a world I could not handle. A world without love and companionship- and if I'm being honest with myself, and yes, I am trying, Sherlock, so shut up- without hope.

You see, I'm a staunch, military man even if my stint in the armed forces was merely as a doctor. I saw every bloody thing all of those soldiers saw. I saw death, and I fought with it face-to-face. I have dealt with things no man ever should, and I did it with a straight back and a determination that got me through it all. There has been no body I haven't come to terms with losing. There has been no blood spilt that has made me truly cry. There has been no loss that I have not overcome.

And here comes Sherlock Holmes to ruin my perfect, clean run. Because there was blood on that concrete that I cried over. There was a loss that, for the life of me, I could not overcome. In courting her, I found that everything was superficial and a lying façade. Sherlock wasn't there anymore, and I simply couldn't find it in my heart to replace him.

Replace him.

How laughable.

He was the great Sherlock Holmes, he was irreplaceable. And within the blink of an eye, and the stutter of my poor, miserable heart- he was gone. Just like that. Just like he'd never really been there at all.

And so, I began to die. Inside. Of course, to those who've lost someone they truly love, this concept isn't all that difficult to grasp.

And let me tell you, time doesn't change things. It really doesn't. I have heard that time heals all wounds. That, my lovely readers, is a lie from the devil. Whoever coined that phrase, I'd like to have a stern talking to with. For my heart, my soul, my placid, simple mind cannot heal from this.

And so, this shall be my last blog post. This is it, dear readers. I cannot live without him, therefore, I shall die as he did.

I shall take a fall.

I shall walk over the edge and fly one last time- as I did with him, on his every case, every time I looked in his explosive blue eyes, every time he explained to me the way his brilliant volatile mind worked.

Goodbye.

I love you, you stupid, stupid man.

I love you, Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: I'm sorry. I didn't actually intend for this to end this way...and who's to say it's over, eh?

Love me. I'm a terrible person. Whoop.

Pleeeease review? This is my first Johnlock fic. Be gentle ;)

~xoxox, Rayn.