(A/N) I do not own Sherlock or anything to do with it. This is my first fic, but don't hold back if you see any problems or you think I should do something different.

In a hundred lifetimes

In a hundred worlds

In any version of reality

I'd find you

And I'd choose you

My heart dropped with him.

I'll never forget that sensation for as long as I dare to live.

I say dare, because I don't want to venture further into this hellish warped world that is life if he isn't by my side every step of the way.

What warning signs did I miss?

How was I supposed to know he wanted to die?

And as I unfurl on his battered old armchair, suddenly feeling so old, I wonder if anyone knows that I do. Or at least that the thought of joining him, in whatever lies beyond the mortal border, passes through my mind every day because it feels so right. Slipping seamlessly into this dimension to the next. A fly hurtling into the cobweb because it feels as though it should; it is its fate to suffocate in those whispery tendrils.

An unholy noise brings me back to Earth with a crack, and I wince at my own choice of words. I glance around the weary old flat, eyes pricked for the source of such an inhuman noise. Then I realise it was me, and swallow the sharp lump in my throat in a bid to stop myself from doing it again.

I have been sitting here for a good few days, only short breaks to eat; I sleep and breathe and cry here – if I have the energy to sob, rising my shoulder seems to hurt much more than it should – it's become almost like my recluse. The hustle of the London backdrop seems to fade here; you are alone with your mind. This could have various degrees of helpfulness. Sometimes, I relive the laughs we had and the things he said. But other times, it's that day – the day two people died, because both of us died that day – when he phoned me and everything changed.

He was there, before me. Screaming for help yet his voice was so … soft.

I would tear down London just to hold him in my arms one more time. I would scream until my vocal chords snapped, I would take 100 silver bullets, I would –

"John?" A timid voice asks, my eyes light up – they have been dead for weeks – and look over my shoulder. Mrs Hudson, my ex landlady, is holding a tea tray in her aging hands – the china on it rattling only slightly. She gives me a look of sympathy, concern which is so mothering I feel like choking,

"You've been up here for a while now." She informs me quietly, placing the tray down on the wooden table, which has long since been emptied of most of his paperwork, and straightens up slowly. I muster a smile, which falls at the first hurdle and quickly withers,

"M'sorry," I mumble, my lips slow to part and form words, everything feels so numb – my lips belong against his and not trying to convince people it's okay. She doesn't smile back, she just kind of lingers, and I guess she's not leaving until I drink some tea.

It's bland and seems to rub grit into my throat, but I swallow a few sips – like a child eating the bare minimum of his vegetables – and place the cup back down. It's not the same, Mrs Hudson mothering me when really she should be doing it to both of us. I want to tell her this, but my heart, lips and mind aren't working in alliance anymore. The communication has just gone.

Yet Mrs Hudson still does not leave, and the look on her face – one of calculation – tells me we are about to approach a sensitive topic.

"It's been seven months, John." She tells me, "Are you planning on moving out?" She doesn't speak as though she's telling me to leave, in fact quite the opposite, as though she wants to keep me here forever, but it sounds like she knows that the longer I stay here the more of a threat I become to myself.

"I'll stay-" I clear my throat, my voice sounds alien, "I'll stay here, thanks." My gaze returning to the worn out patch of floor before my outstretched legs. It seems as though I'm brushing her off, but I'm not – not intentionally. My lungs draw in the air, and expel it, and repeat. Like clockwork, it's been programmed to function – yet there is a cog missing now and it's not quite right. I'm a half-finished machine and he is the mad scientist who gave up. The puppet that snipped his own strings and flopped, the snake that bit itself and allowed its own poison to fill its blood stream.

Why?

I was still by his side, and he could've confided anything in me and I would've stayed there – except I would've taken his hand and told him how splendid I thought he was. He could've, should've and maybe if we had had more time he would have told me what was wrong and I know that I would have done everything in my power to make it right for him. I would've sacrificed all of my light to get rid of his shadows, and I would've bled all my joy to eliminate his sadness.

But he has drained me.

Body and soul he has drained me to my last drop of existence.

I am nothing.

As I said,

I am incomplete.

Perhaps nothing will ever fill that all empowering void, that vacuum, that is him.

Sherlock Holmes.

The man to whom I owe so much,

And who owes me an apology

I'm sorry, John. But I'm home now.

That is all I ask.

But those words will never be delivered, at least not from those Cupid 's bow lips. I'll never see those words form, never sense the sentence being born inside that brilliant mind. I'll never hear his apology; and in turn he'll never hear my cries. When I wake up, pleading with him not to jump and telling him I need him.

Telling him it's perfectly fine if he needs me back.

And equally fine if he doesn't but he needs to tell me why he's up there anyway.

His army, albeit a small one, had crumbled and had morphed into a begrudging disbelief, whispering Sir Boastalot – and then screaming it as he fell like a mantra. A horrible, sick and twisted chorus and volley of hate that drove a man to suicide.

Suddenly irritated at my silence, Mrs Hudson coughs lightly to bring me back from my mind – and I am thankful.

"It's not healthy, I'm just trying to look out for you." She murmurs, her voice soft and sweet. I barely have enough care to look in her direction, but I wrench my heart from it's lonely socket and try. I try because I must.

Would he be feeling this way; if this had been reversed? Had felt wretched and empty enough to find comfort in death? Had I been in a mad rush to greet the reaper in such a fashion? Had I made him my audience?

I don't know.

Perhaps I never will.

And these mortal coils are burning.

Because we should have owned forever.

Our sand-turner should never have run out.

Our minutes, our seconds and our heart beats should have merged – and we should've been one.

But he was smashed,

And so was I.

(A/N) I don't want to sound needy, but I'd love any review and/or constructive criticism. If this goes down well maybe I should do a reunion … But for now I'll bury myself in blankets and hope that one of you review.

All my love