Note: I own nothing of 'Sherlock' or 'Soldier'.

Journal of Dr. John H. Watson

Monday June 24

Again. Another endless day of sitting in an empty flat trying but failing to accept the impossible. What's impossible? That Sherlock, my best friend, threw himself off a fucking building right in front of me, that's what. No one else seems to find it unbelievable mind you. They feel sorry for me, say I'm in denial and I'll accept it eventually but they're wrong. I never will. I'm an army doctor for fuck's sake do they think I haven't known guys who offed themselves before? That I haven't had guys blow their brains out five minutes after breakfast in the fucking morning? Well I have and I can tell you, that not what happened with Sherlock.

But then what the hell did happen to Sherlock? Maybe I am crazy and everyone else is right. But I can't get over the feeling he was trying to tell me something before he jumped. Something different from what he actually said, which was a pack of nonsense and lies. And why would he lie to me?

I should be able to figure this out but Christ, I can't think, my head feels like its full of broken glass, every thought hurts and nothing makes sense. I've got to get off these damned pills.

Tuesday June 25

I want to know why, Sherlock. Oh God, Sherlock, how could you have done this? I told you I'd help you. I was right there; I wanted to – No, I have to stop this. I can't go down this road again. It only leads to crazy. Have to stop now.

Stick to the facts. He always said it's a mistake to theorize without all the facts − and he had his saying, the one about about eliminating the impossible and finding the truth.

Okay, right then, what are the facts?

He jumped off a roof right in front of me.

Right. And he tried to convince me it was suicide.

Him? Did he have the clinical signs of suicidal thinking? Depression? Self-doubt? Lethargy? Loss of interest in normal activities? Decreased ability to perform tasks? Alcohol or drug abuse?

No. Well, yes to that last item on the list, but nicotine doesn't induce suicide.

Loss of appetite?

He rarely ate anyway.

Sleep disruption?

He usually didn't sleep much either.

So it was situational then? Despair. Public humiliation. With his life's work and reputation destroyed, did he lose hope, give up?

He did say when I first met him that all he had in life was his work...so it could be...but no, him killing himself was still out-of-character. He attacked life, always lived in the moment. And he really didn't care what people thought.

It just doesn't add up.

Was there something else then? Some kind of external influence?

Yes, must have been. Sure, the last night was bad, but the harder the problem the more alive he got. He was engaged, treating this as another case to be solved. He had a plan to fix what was happening, he wasn't hopeless.

What about Mycroft's betrayal? He must have known that it was Mycroft who gave Moriarty his personal information. Would that have upset him enough to do it?

Possibly, but not likely. He didn't trust Mycroft anyway.

Was it me?

He needed me; he got upset whenever I was away from him. But I was with him all that night, except when he wanted to be alone, and I told him I'd stay with him, so it couldn't have been that.

Or did he think it was just a matter of time before I'd start to believe the lies? Did he doubt me?

He said something like that to me earlier that night. Okay, that is a real possibility. He felt I was his only friend so he might have been afraid of losing me.

What else?

The timing of it didn't make sense. He sent me away on purpose with the fake phone call about Mrs. Hudson. But then he waited and jumped after I came back, not while I was away. Oh. So he planned it. But people plan suicides all the time, that's not unusual.

But do they plan suicide like that? Send their best friend away but then wait until they come back to kill themselves?

No.

So why jump in front of me? Was he angry? Trying to hurt me? To make me feel guilty about something?

No. No.

Because he wanted to talk to me first? To leave a note, he said.

Yes, but no. He could have talked to me before I came back. He did it by phone anyway.

Oh Christ. I don't know. I can't do this. I'm so bloody tired. It's no use anyway. He's gone and none of this will bring him back.