It was on that cold January day when Sherlock Holmes had taken John to a crime scene.

John felt completely out of place with his walking stick and constant question mark above his head. He stood wordlessly on the sideline while his new apparent flatmate was buzzing around, searching for clues.

Sherlock, happy that there was some excitement in his life again, was bouncing all over the place deducing all sorts of things John could've never thoughtto look for. It amazed him quite a bit, but also made him feel quite stupid.

It was when they arrived at the scene, John had met D.I Lestrade, Anderson and sergeant Donovan.

The whole situation was strange to John, all this 'deduction stuff' was not for him, he wasn't that smart or thorough.

And besides, he felt hehad dealt with enough deaths in his life, and though he craved war like the weird man in the parking lot had said, John felt very out of place here.

While John was lost in his thoughts, Sherlock had walked off, but he hadn't seen where to.

When he walked outside again, he looked around disorientated.

Sherlock had run out in a rush after shouting something about 'pink'.

Now he stood here in the middle of the street, with zero idea where he even was.

He hobbled over to the nearest person, which happened to be sergeant Donovan.

John recalled her and Sherlock not getting along only a short 20minutes earlier, but decided she was his best shot at getting home for now. All the other detectives were all upstairs and he was not going to climb those hellish things again, not
with his leg.

Donovan looked up from her clipboard and caught John's eye.

Seeing he was walking over to her, and assuming he was going to ask he something, she sighed and walked a few steps over to him.

After they introduced themselves, she looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?" She asked, skeptical about his relationship with Sherlock.

John was surprised by her sudden question and tried to find the words to answer.

"I'm... I'm nobody. I've just met him." He stuttered, looking at Donovan with curiousity. He had without doubt the strangest evening in a long time, but perhaps this wasn't the adventure he was hoping for, after all, he was alone in a parking lot across
from a crime scene, with no sign of Sherlock Holmes.

"Okay, bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy." Sally warned him, staring him down intensely.

John was taken aback by this and he scrunched his nose a little, a thing he does when he's unsure or confused.

"Why?" He asked, curious about the tall man with the long coat, what could possibly be so bad to avoid him?

Donovan looked at him with a smile in her eyes.

She laughed shortly and silently.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes
will be the one who put it there."

John was so taken aback by this, that he could only stare for a few seconds.

"Why would he do that?" He asked, still wondering how anyone could get this kind of opinion of a person. But Sally had worked with him for some time, and John reconed she had at least some evidence to back her statement up.

" 'Cause he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored." She stated simply.

And john wondered.

What if she was right?

From what he had seen the last few hours, the man was kind of a psychopath.

The skull, the way he treats others, his excitement over a crime involving a dangerous murderer... And on too of that,Donovan had known Sherlock longer than he had. If anyone would have known something about Sherlock, it would have been Donovan,
Lestrade or Anderson. And they all seemed to dislike him quite a bit. AlthoughLestrade may treat Sherlock more normal, John knew he was only putting up with the consulting detective for the sake of the case, not because he liked the man.
/

John nodded and asked where he could find a cab, she pointed in a direction further down the road.

John thanked her and walked down the street, where he caught a cab and got in.

When he sat down, he thought about what Donovan had said.

Maybe she was right, this was not for him.

The murders, the seemingly endless nights, being surrounded by police and guns and excitement all the time...

He didn't want any more excitement in his life. He wanted to settle down, start a family perhaps.

Whenhe got to his apartment, he texted Sherlock Holmes, saying the deal was off, he was going to find another apartement, London is a big city, there is more then enough living space for him elsewhere.

He wondered vaguely if he had made the right choice, but shrugged it off and made himself a cup of tea. Maybe he could ask the bank for some money to rent a place here, maybe he could put an ad in the paper for a roommate.

And that one decision John Watson made, on that very day,was the end of Sherlock Holmes.

Because a few hours later, Sherlock stood in front of a cabbie, in an empty classroom,holding a pill in his hand.

He couldn't resist, he had to know. He had always been more curious than careful, it was his nature, he had to know if he had been right.

So he lifted the pill up to his mouth, staring the cabbie down.

But this time there was no John to stop the cabbie.

There was no bullet in the cabbie's arm. So Sherlock took the pill in his mouth, and swallowed it.

It was the first time in he had been wrong.

Too bad it was also his last time.