I had to re-upload this, because I had a bunch of grammatical errors and was completely horrified by them. Apologies all around. I don't own anything.

It's hard, going on without Sherlock.

I'm managing, though. In my own little ways.

I haven't gotten rid of the jar of eyeballs. The skull still rests in its rightful place on the mantel. I don't sit on the couch too much – I prefer my own armchair. These are the small things that keep Sherlock alive in my mind.

But . . . somedays I can't do it. Some days I call in sick, I tell Mrs. Hudson I'll be out all day, and I just wander around London. I prefer a walk to the park, but more often than not I'll take a stroll on the sidewalk and end up who knows where. While walking, I'll think back on my favorite moments with Sherlock. I'll remember all the cases we solved. But most of all, I'll wonder why.

Why, Sherlock? Why did you do it? Was I that bad of a flatmate? I'm a doctor – I'm given at least the basics on how to recognize suicide signs. How did I not see his?

Those thoughts plague me – have plagued me since his . . . fall two months ago.

I kick a soda can lying in my path absent-mindedly and idly watch it bounce away, the setting sun glinting off of the metal. I know I should be paying attention to my surroundings, as the world's only consulting detective always did, but I can't muster the energy to do so. My "Walk-With-No-Purpose Days" always leave me feeling sad and exhausted. I need them, though. I let out all of my bottled-up emotions out on these days. It's probably not the best way to deal with his death, but, in my opinion, it's better than a slow burn throughout the rest of my life.

As I pass a dark alleyway, the hair on the back of my neck raises. I can't help but feel like I'm being watched. I subconsciously reach for my gun, but realize with a pang I left it at the house. In my defense, ever since Sherlock left, I haven't really had the need for it.

Suddenly someone slams into me, causing me to stumble farther into the alley. I try to regain my balance and face the person who tackled me, but I'm shoved against a wall before I can. A hand presses itself against my mouth, smashing my head against the wall, while a metallic object digs into my stomach. A gun.

"Not a sound," the person, a man, hisses into my ear.

No problem, I want to say. Wasn't planning on it. But instead I take the time to study the man's face. He has stringy, greasy brown hair that falls down to his shoulders, and a long, straggly beard. His green eyes are wild, looking . . . panicked? Angry? Insane? Perhaps all of the above. Okay, I think, forcing myself to keep my breathing steady, what would Sherlock be able to make out of that?

Obviously, the man is desperate. He's holding a random citizen at gunpoint. His hair and beard are unkempt, a sign that he . . . uh . . . hasn't been taking showers. All right. That tells me . . . absolutely nothing.

I don't have any more time to do my pathetic attempt at deducing, because I hear sirens growing steadily closer. Yes, I silently cheer. The cavalry has arrived.

Unfortunately, the gun-wielder hears them too. He casts a frightened look over his shoulder, his grip on my mouth tightening. "No, no, no," he mutters, seemingly to himself.

Then he turns away from me, simultaneously freeing me from my place on the wall. He takes a few steps toward the empty street, away from the dark alley and me, but a familiar figure steps in front of him, effectively cutting off his escape route.

Lestrade.

I have never been happier to see the detective.

He casts a surprised look in my direction, but then shakes his head in a "we'll talk about this later" gesture. Then he points his gun at the stringy-haired man, saying, "George, put the gun down."

The man, George, apparently, instantly tenses. "I don't wanna go back," he says harshly. "I ain't going back there."

George has obviously gone off the deep end. I figure Lestrade could use some help, so I start to edge forward a little, but Lestrade glares at me. Don't move, his eyes seem to say.

Too late. My movements remind the gunman of my presence, and he whirls to face me again. He raises his gun at me, his hands shaking.

Lestrade uses the distraction to move forward, but George points the gun at him. His eyes flick from me to Lestrade and back again, the gun switching targets as fast as his eyes. We're stuck in a mexican standoff.

Then an officer, Anderson, comes barreling around the corner of the alley, shouting, "I got your back, Lestrade!"

It's amazing how cause-and-effect situations work.

Anderson's shouts and fast movements cause George to flinch.

His flinch causes his finger to press down on the trigger.

Pressing down the trigger causes the gun to fire.

The effect?

A sharp pain in my gut that makes me gasp and crumple to the ground.

Everything's moving really fast now. Anderson and some other men on the force – where did they come from? - put George in handcuffs and lead the stricken, rambling man away. "It just went off . . . he was . . . I didn't . . . I didn't mean to!"

Lestrade is crouched over me, alternating between shouting for some paramedics and talking to me. "John, stay with me. You've got to keep your eyes open. I – hey! I need a medic over here!"

The inspector's face is becoming blurry. It's hard for me to focus past the pain flowing through my body. And the fact that I'm about to die.

I'm a doctor. I know a fatal wound when I see one. Or, in this case, feel one. It doesn't matter how fast the paramedics get here. They won't be able to save me.

A hand slaps my face, somewhat gently. "Open your eyes."

Oh. I hadn't realized I closed them. I slowly force them open, if only to please the detective. His concerned face swims in front of me. But then another form crouches down next to him. I blink sluggishly. The newer figure has a pale face underneath a mass of dark curls.

The newcomer speaks in a scratchy, border-line crying voice. "John Watson, you are not giving up."

Yup. I'm definitely a goner. He sounds exactly like . . . .

"Sherlock," Lestrade says gently, "it looks pretty bad."

If I had the strength, I would make a sarcastic comment about Lestrade's bedside manner. But I don't. Besides, I have to take into consideration his hallucinations. I mean, if he's seeing Sherlock as well, he can't be completely stable.

"Don't say that!" Not-Sherlock yells. Which instantly proves that he isn't Sherlock. Because Sherlock never sounds panicked.

Not-Sherlock leans in close to me. "Don't leave me, John," he whispers. "Please, please don't leave me. I'm sorry for everything I've done. I'm sorry for being a terrible flatmate. I'm sorry for abandoning you. I know you have good reason to be angry with me but don't -" he takes a shuddering breath. "Don't do this to me."

I try to reason with the sad hallucination. "It's okay, though, 'cause you're not real." I'm not even sure how much of that got out of my mouth, but I'm pretty sure Not-Sherlock got the gist of it. He jerks a little, pulling away from me.

"What?" he asks. He sounds almost . . . frightened.

I'm too tired to repeat it. I just want to sleep. I want to drift away in peace.

Of course, I feel bad for Lestrade, so I try to stay awake just for him. "L'strade," I mumble.

"I'll listen, John," Lestrade instantly replies. "But you have to open your eyes first."

Oops. They'd closed again.

"D'ya want me to pass a message onto Sherlock?" I figure if I'm going to die, I should have a goal in mind for when I do. And since Sherlock is going to be the first person I look for wherever I'm going, I might as well tell him how much everyone misses him.

I don't think Lestrade was expecting a question like that. He gives a sideways glance to the hallucination sitting next to him, his eyes full of sadness. Then he turns back to me. "Um, John, this might come as a shock to you, but Sher-"

Not-Sherlock elbows the detective in the ribs, who grunts in pain. "What he meant to say, John," the hallucination begins, sounding as though something's clogging his throat, "was that he doesn't need to tell Sherlock anything. What he really wants to know is what you would say to Sherlock. If he was here, I mean."

Oh. That requires thinking. I really don't want to think right now. "Well . . . I'd tell him what a bloody idiot he is." I have to stop and breathe, because black spots are starting to take over my vision. Not yet, I plead. Lestrade needs to hear this. "And . . . and I'd tell him . . . ." Something wet is building up in my throat, and I have to cough to get it out. The hot, sticky liquid dribbles down my chin, but I ignore it. "I'd tell him how much I miss him. How hurt I was when he jumped." Not-Sherlock is shaking, his tears dripping down onto the pavement. "Then I'd . . ." I cough again, and the blackness nearly overwhelms me. "I'd punch him." My eyes slowly slide shut.

I'm done. My body has given its all trying to fight the enveloping darkness that hungrily searches for my soul. Sorry, Lestrade, I think drowsily. I tried.

I feel hands holding my head as something wet splashes onto my face. Must be raining. Then a hoarse voice whispers, "I'm sorry, John. I'm so, so sorry."

Then I'm gone.