John sat, staring at the coat that used clothe the man who entered his life so briskly and left his heart frosty. Sherlock seemed a distant memory now, a dream or thought in passing. A tear rolled down John's face, lazily running over his cheek as he thought 'don't bloody do it John, don't do it.' But he stood anyway, taking the coat from the wardrobe and putting it on before looking in the mirror, in disgust of what he had become. His face was sharp and grey - too skinny for a man of his size, his jumpers hung looser on him now, as food became less and less of a necessity. The coat drowned John. The sleeves hanging far past his hands and the bottom brushing near his ankles. He took the scarf out of the draw, and put it on - not quite perfecting the Sherlock tie but it was close enough. If John couldn't have Sherlock, he would become Sherlock. He would smoke. He would forget the milk. Hell, he would even have a go at the microscope. 'BORED' John shouted, tears running faster now, memories flowing. 'BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED' John got his gun out of the desk draw and shot at the wall, before slumping into the sofa. He laughed through his tears, remebering his lanky, curly haired phycopath. 'High functioning sociopath' John said, correcting himself. A wave of nostalgia flooded John, beating and brusing his already broken heart. He snuggled deeper into his friends coat, entwining himself in the fading scent of Sherlock's body and stared around the room. Nothing had moved in 221B, infact, everything was a little too untouched. Sherlock's skull was still on the mantlepiece, the violin proped up into the corner... John hadn't even removed the now moulding and deflated heart from the fridge. Everything had the essence of Sherlock's life; a living musem, though, the objects were somehow detached - dead without his presence; unused and lonly. John had had enough. He wouldn't be bound to this prolonged heartache any longer. His eyes still sore and prickiling, his head spinning, John caught a cab; still clad in his friends clothes. He arrived at St. Barts hospital and stared up to where he last saw Sherlock. He remembered the quiver in Sherlocks voice, the doubt that had never been shown before. Could he have stopped it? Was it his fault? John moved like a ghost through the hospital, though his limp slowed him down as he reached the roof of the building, his heart pounding and the distinct feeling of helplessness overwhelming him. The veiw was sickening, people living and working, their world still spinning without Sherlock. But John knew of the terrors that were going on underneath the lively makeup of the world. Of the gangs, and the killers and the ignorance of police. The wind picked up and blew Sherlocks coat gently as John approached the edge of the building. Everything seemed to slow down, like approaching a black hole; sucking everything into an inevitable darkness, an unknown destination that Sherlock had already reached. A dull sense of regret filled John, for all the unsaid 'I love yous' and all the kisses that never were. A tear rolled down John's face, lazily running over his cheek as he thought 'don't bloody do it John, don't do it.' But he stepped forward anyway, the roof slipping away from his feet and relief flooding his weightless body. As he fell he thought of Sherlock, leaving a smile as he hit the cool, unforgiving ground.