Johnlock-Post Reichenbach

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, sitting low in a crouch. He was hidden by a low wall in
someone's back garden. He had his eyes locked on a pair of men deep in conversation. They had worked
for the late Jim Moriarty.

They were the last. He had eliminated every other, and could tell these men were paranoid.
They had themselves surrounded by various security measures, but Sherlock had bypassed them as
easily as breathing. He could have done the same at age seven.

Sighing, he cracked open the suitcase beside him, pulling out the Uzi nestled within. He began to
take aim, but soon gave up and pulled the trigger.

The men fell easily, were down in five seconds. Sherlock wiped the gun down, tossing it in the
pool across from him. He was done. He could go home. Home, to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Mycroft.
And John. He grinned and let out a childish giggle, ignoring the bodies that lay only a few hundred feet
away, blood dripping out of the holes that riddled their bodies. He was finally done.

It had been two and a half years, and John still wasn't over Sherlock, or his death. He had
admitted to himself days before Sherlock's suicide that he was in love with the only consulting detective.
He just never got a chance to say anything, what with the "fraud" business.

Every day, John woke up and made two cups of tea. Two pieces of toast, his slathered with
strawberry jam, the other plain with a side of eggs Benedict. He still heard violin music at 3am, and saw
a shadow of Sherlock peering in his microscope. But then John realized that he was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

John had been prescribed numerous sleeping medications, but he didn't bother taking them.
They didn't help. They never would.

He saved the pills. The first couple of weeks, he had tossed each new bottle down the garbage
disposal. Then he had an epiphany. He could use these, eventually. So he saved them. He had also
purchased a handgun. Whether for protection or self-annihilation, he didn't know. Still he kept it tucked
under his pillow.

He was currently nestled in Sherlock's bed, his pillow shoved to his nose, taking in the scent of
Sherlock. He knew it wasn't healthy, but he couldn't help it. He just missed the mad man so much his
heart ached.

A tear escaped his bloodshot eyes, rolling down his face and soaking into his hair. He sat up
slowly, clutching the pillow to his chest, his heart pounding in his ears. Walking to his room, he grabbed
the gun and walked calmly back to the den. He sat down, snagging a pen and paper off of the dining
room table, and started to write.

Mrs. Hudson,

I'm sorry. I just can't go on without him. I just can't live in a world that is convinced he
was a fraud. He wasn't a fake. He was the smartest man I've ever known. You've been wonderful to me
these last few years, Mrs. Hudson, and I thank you.

-John

BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK

He wrote letters to Lestrade, Molly, Harry, and Mycroft, all varying in what they said, but all
containing the same message. He wrote one to both Donovan and Anderson, saying "Rot in hell","you sons-of-bitches", and "You bloody wankers" to
name a few phrases.

He folded these up, labeled them, and set them aside. He pulled up another piece of paper and
took a deep breath. Paper met pen and words poured out.

Sherlock,

You made me realize that not everything is as it seems, and that looking closer could
save a life. You were my opposite, and that made a balance. I know you aren't coming back, Sherlock,
but I had to write this letter. You are on my mind constantly, and I still sleep with your pillow. I didn't
believe you were a fraud, and I still don't. I never will. You were the most honourable man I've ever had
the pleasure to know, and I know you don't believe in heroes, but I still think you are one.

I love you, Sherlock, and I'll see you soon.

-John

He folded this last letter up, wrote SHERLOCK on it in big bold letters, and set it on top of the
rest. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he raised the gun to his chin, finger on the trigger. Then
the door flew open.

Sherlock had a giant grin on his face as he bounded up the stairs inside 221B Baker Street. As
excited as he was at the thought of seeing John again, Sherlock wasn't thinking rationally. He wasn't
thinking of John's delicate mental state, or what John would do when he saw a dead man run through
the front door. All he could think was "John." His smile bright enough to make night turn to day, he
pushed the door open and scrambled inside. The sight that met him made his smile and stomach drop in unison.