"Why today?" Johns therapists inquires.

"D'you want to hear me say it?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment."

"D'you read the papers?"

"Sometimes."

"Mmm, and you watch telly? You know why I'm here. I'm here because …"

"What happened, John?"

"Sher…"

"You need to get it out."

"My best friend ... Sherlock Holmes …" John sniffs, forcing his voice through the anguish. "... is dead."

Losing a genius consulting detective devastated the police, but losing his genius, his husband, his one true love, crippled John.

The words seemed to be forced out of a clogged pipe: "My best friend…Sherlock Holmes...is dead." John had said best friend, but he meant husband, true love. He'd even go as far as saying that Sherlock Holmes was his savior, the man who pulled the damaged war doctor out of his flashbacks and nightmares, and into a world of magical deductions, mysterious murders, dangerous crime and love. Sherlock had, unknowingly, shown John that he could love again, but John was the one who taught the lonely genius how to love in the first place.

"John, are you coming to bed?" A blonde haired woman sat on the corner of the bed brushing her wet hair.

"Mary, I have to tell you about Sherlock." It had been 18 months since the incident; John and Mary had been together for a year, but John, trying to forget the past, only mentioned his past partner accidentally in casual conversation. There would be a "Sherlock, we need milk-um, Mary we need milk." or a "Sherlock, look at the news!" Just slips of the tongue, but John decided that enough was enough; he'd allowed himself to be tortured by the past for too long.

"Okay, sit down. You talk, I'll listen." Green, innocent eyes looked up at John as he limped to the bed and set down his cane.

"Sherlock was my-" Clearing his throat, John started over. "Sherlock Holmes was a great man, a brilliant man. He could deduce what would normally be imperceptible, he could-and did-solve the hardest crimes the Scotland Yard had faced, just by looking, by observing, a crime scene. He could tell your whole life story by the way you walked or talked. The first time we met, he asked me if I'd served in Afghanistan or Iraq. He told me things about my sister only family knows, just by looking at my phone. He was a genius."

Marry just nodded and wrapped her arms around the doctor's waist. She knew that this was hard for John, she had seen his face when he accidentally mentioned the other man.

"Sherlock was my genius; we got married without any spectators except his brother, and my sister. He'd insisted that he kept it quiet, he said he was afraid that clients would not want to hire two homosexual men to consult on their cases. I think, though, he didn't want to hear it from Donavan or Anderson; they'd given him Hell about everything." John felt the pressure on his waist release. Mary stared at him

"John, you could've at least told me you were gay. I wouldn't have put so much of myself into this relationship."

"That's exactly why I didn't tell you! I just needed to forget the past, but I can't. Sherlock always said that he was married to his work, but I taught him how to love living people. He showed me that I could love and be loved; the broken war doctor and the lonely genius, picking up the pieces and putting each other back together. It hurts so much, getting up everyday without him. I thought that time and distractions would help me forget, but I can't." John was weeping now.

"Am I only a distraction to you?" Mary's anger threatened to flare, but she reminded herself that John was hurting, he needed someone to help him. "The whole time you have been trying to forget Sherlock. What if that's the problem? Have you tried to remember him instead of forgetting?"

"It hurts…" A sob escapes the doctors lips. "I...I can't, it hurts too much. Being without him hurts, but remembering how we were together hurts more." John took a key out of his pocket, pulled the lockbox out from under the bed, and unlocked it. Inside the dark metal box, lay the gun the doctor had carried with him on his many adventures with Holmes.

Mary gasped softly, not understanding why John was showing her a gun. "What...what are you going to do? John!"

Grimly, John responded, "Suicide, that's how he did it, if you wanted to know. He jumped of a building, while I watched. He said that he lied about being able to deduce things, that he'd researched me and all the other information he knew. Suicide. You know, sometimes I think, 'He's lucky, wherever he is now, he doesn't have to feel anything-no pain, no suffering. He's got it easy.' But, what about me, don't I deserve a break?" John had loaded the gun with a 9mm cartridge and clicked off the safety. Sobbing heavily, John lifted the gun to his head and looked deep into Mary's eyes.

"John!? Please, put the gun down." Tears streamed down the woman's face as she finally realized how felt, being on the verge of losing your whole life, everything that mattered about to be ripped from you. She looked at John with a newly found respect; he'd lived through feeling like this everyday. "John, don't do this. Would Sherlock want you to do this? No, he wouldn't!"

"You didn't know him like I did. You met him through the telly, interviews, newspapers. I know that a man like Sherlock, who loved himself immensely, would never kill himself unless people he loved were in danger. He was blackmailed, I tried to tell Lestrade but he didn't believed me; they pegged me as the helpless, grieving war doctor." Johns hands shook, even though he had plenty experience with firearms. "Sherlock died with everyone looking down at his body, they pitied him. Ordinary people pitying a genius! He didn't deserve to be remembered as a liar, he was a hero! He was my hero and I can't live without him. It...It hurts too much; I've lost too much of myself, there are no more pieces to put back together. Three people died that day, Moriarty, Sherlock, and me."

The last words to be uttered from the doctor where four simple ones at crushed Mary's soul: "He broke my heart."

Sherlock Holmes had broken the virtually indestructible war doctor's heart. Is that even possible? Is it possible for the death of a lonely genius to have such a heavy toll on a soldier that he'd take his own life?

Yes. Yes it is.