It had been months- a couple years, even- since Greg had seen John.
It was bad.
The man looked hollow. Empty. Lost. He obviously hadn't been eating much, and he smelled faintly of alcohol when the Detective Inspector got close enough to catch a whiff.
Instantly, Greg regretted all the times he'd thought on John and decided that the weak "I'm fine" the doctor had left him with was enough to let him off the hook.
John didn't seem to notice him. Greg almost let him walk past. Then he took a deep breath and called out, "John!"
The man turned. His eyes searched, unfocused, for a beat too long before he murmured, "Greg…"
"H-how are you?"
"Fine."
Bullshit.
"Oh. Good."
They turned away. An old conversation with Mycroft played in his mind's eye:
"I can trust you… Right, Greg?"
"Of course."
"I need to tell you something, then. About Sherlock…"
Greg shook his head. I can't believe I'm doing this.
"John?"
The man looked up. "Hmm?"
A few weak sounds escaped Lestrade before, finally:
"He's alive. Sherlock. He faked the whole thing."
The doctor stared, frozen. Impossible. It couldn't be. Greg's worried John? didn't register. He's alive. He's alive. He's alive.
And then he was running. His limp had disappeared- not that he'd noticed. He found himself back in the old flat before he'd even set his mind to going there. Like a madman, he searched the flat, not knowing what he was looking for. Finally, gasping for breath in a pile of scattered newspapers, shattered mugs, and shredded pillows, he stopped.
"Fine. Fine. FINE! If that's what you want, then FINE! I hope you like getting a taste of your own medicine!" he shouted to the void.
-o0o-
It was pretty easy for him to get his hands on the necessary items. He had all the knowledge he needed- he was a doctor, after all. It was a pretty ingenious plan, really. And when it was all said and done, he'd managed to fool everyone. Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and… Sherlock.
-o0o-
"Mycroft! Good news, I-"
"Sherlock… There's something you need to know."
"What is it?" the younger Holmes snapped impatiently.
"It's John Watson. Sherlock… John's dead. He killed himself last night."
-o0o-
John had seen him come in. He was in disguise now, wanting to watch his little trick play out. He couldn't see him actually find his body. It might have been too much.
Sherlock came out of the room, his eyes red and his expression frustrated.
"I was ready to come home," he hissed to Mycroft. "I'd finished wiping out Moriarty's assassins. I could have been back before… before this happened."
"It's the price you paid, Sherlock. What's one life compared to the many others you've saved by eliminating every threat of Moriarty?"
"It's not fair."
"Nothing is."
Sherlock sank to the floor, his hands tangling in his hair, and gave a haunting, pathetic whimper.
John couldn't stay any more.
-o0o-
He'd written a note. He was sure Sherlock would read it; he'd posted it on the blog. It wasn't much, but it would do.
To whom it may concern,
I tried my best to continue on, but everything seems to have been taken from me. My best friend, my livelihood, even the proper use of both my legs. I can't take it any more. I'm sorry, but I see no other choice.
Goodbye, everyone.
Sincerely, John Watson
-o0o-
Sherlock went back to the flat to find it practically demolished. Judging by the pattern of debris, the destruction had been done by someone who'd known the flat well. He studied the shards of glass. His mugs had been broken with much more force than John's. And John's favorite pillows only had a few careful incisions, while Sherlock's were completely decimated. John…?
The consulting detective paused while he walked by his late flatmate's room, then gently pushed open the door.
"Hello, Sherlock."
"John? But you're-"
"I thought you were, too," John challenged.
"That was different."
"How? How was it different?"
"I had to! Just listen, I'll explain."
"No need. I heard you talking with Mycroft the day you came to see my body in the morgue. Listen, I don't care if you'd taken out all the criminals in the world. I just wanted you to tell me!"
"It wouldn't have been safe for you to know. John, the assassins could have killed you!"
"I don't care! Don't you get it? Do you know at all what kind of hell I was in because of you?"
"If you'd kept up your charade a little longer, John, you'd have realized that it's nothing compared to having to see your best friend suffer at your hand and not being able to do a thing to help!"
John started to make a comeback, then stopped. He remembered the moment in the morgue when he had to look away. Three years of that? He couldn't even fathom how awful that would be…
"Were you watching me?" the doctor asked after a moment of silent thought. "All this time?
"Always, John. Always."