A/N: Wrote the entire thing on my phone D; I'm finally finished cos I started it on the the train last weekend and forgot about it. I'm trialing a new style. LESS TALKING. Also means less thinking for characterization ;P Haha, but no seriously. I was crying over this last night. Ummm... character death and if there's interest I'll add. But I'm keeping this open at the moment. So, enjoy.

Sherlock rested his hand against John's cold, still, chest; he was lying on a wheelie bed, ready to be taken into the back of the van. So many emotions were blinding him, grief binding his chest like a serpent, anger fizzling, bubbling just below the surface and determination taking up every empty space inside him. Determination to kill Moriarty, determination to take back what is his. Determination to see his colleague, no, friend, best friend alive again. Though his face was blank when they wheeled his body into the van, the body bag zipped all the way around. Lestrade was standing beside him, admiring his ability to keep it together, for he himself couldn't. Sherlock Holmes stood tall and as concrete at ever, but, deep down, his world had fallen apart. His heart had been shattered since he saw the small bottle of half empty bottle of sulfuric acid lying at John's head, while he struggled to breathe, struggled to hold on. He looked calm, his face was calm and barely showed any pain and you wouldn't be able to tell. If one was not Holmes. He saw the pain behind his eyes, the pain on his face, the way his body was tight, his stomach trembling, to Sherlock Holmes, all he saw was the agony, it all immediately connected inside Sherlock's head and he almost fell apart. A new and strange experience for the intellectual. He had almost taken John's body with him when he sprinted away from the Ferris wheel, alerting somebody of his death, asking them to call 999. What a day to lose his mobile phone. When the people got there to take his body, again, he almost fell to the ground, his legs turning to jelly in shock and the sheer realization of what just happened, that no matter how much he wished and no matter how much he wanted to go back in time and fix this. He couldn't. He buried his head in his hands, forcing everything back and Lestrade looked sideways at him, worried. But when Sherlock put his head up again, he was fine. Though his eyes were slightly red, indicating that he was hiding his unshed tears.

"Mr. Holmes? Could I have word?" a police officer tapped him on the shoulder, completely oblivious to any emotion around him.

Sherlock took a second to respond, too caught up in his thoughts to notice. "Uhm. Yes, yes. Of course."

The police officer smiled with a professional air of comfort. But it wasn't working. He waved him over a few meters away from everyone else to talk properly.

"Tell me where you were tonight."

Four hours earlier:

Sherlock plucked his broken and battered violin, driving John insane; it was so out of tune. Finally, he got up from watching Antiques Road show and shot Sherlock a glare before reaching for his coat.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock inquired curiously.

"Away from this bloody racket, get the thing tuned before I get back. If you're so good at playing it, why don't you know how to tune it?" he snapped.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, staring at the violin and plucking at the E string almost just to annoy John, "I find that tuning wastes time. I usually ask Mrs. Hudson to tune it for me, but I forgot to ask her today," he replied simply as though it were a simple math equation.

John just rolled his eyes and tutted, "Be back soon, going to the pub."Bye," he waved as he slipped his arm through the hole and opened the door at the same time.

His clunky footsteps echoed loudly down the stairs and Sherlock sighed, placing his violin on the ground and drawing his feet underneath him and changed the channel.

At about midnight, his phone vibrated and lit up on the sofa beside him, he almost was going to leave it and call back at a respectable time the next day before seeing the ID on the screen. JOHN WATSON. He picked it up, expecting a text like; At Sally's see you tomorrow, or; Just checking to make sure you didn't blow up the oven again :). But what he got was: Sherlock, I'm not sure how long until they find me here; I'm at the Ferris wheel. Moriarty has me cornered. JW Sherlock's heart plummeted into his stomach and he leapt into action, grabbing his shoes and a jacket for the chilly winds of Autum, but nothing more except his Blackberry. He shot out the door and down the stairs, he would have to run. One o'clock in the morning and the taxi cabs wouldn't run. He grunted in annoyance, he had to run all the way there.

Forty Five minutes later:

Moriarty had already seen him running flat out around the place, looking for John, but no such luck.

"John! Talk to me John!" he called, his voice echoing around the empty lots.

He looked up at the sky, seeing a few stars peeking out from behind the clouds. He would have smiled at the sight, but he was too frantic for it tonight.

He shuddered as a shriek pierced the air; it was coming from directly below him, the controls under the ground! Of course! With a slight air of triumph about him, he sprinted to the nearest set of lock stairs, found it unlocked and ran inside. Just in time to see his colleague fall to the ground, Moriarty standing beside him.

"HEY!" Sherlock screamed, throwing himself over the railing, landing with a hard thunk on the metal floor beneath him, shaking the rivets.

Moriarty looked up at him, a wide mischievous grin plastered on his face. "I told you I would burn the heart out of you," his giggled and placed the bottle beside John's head. "B-bye now!"

He whirled around, swishing the back of his coat with his hands to create an over-dramatic leaving. Sherlock waited until his footsteps had died before he rushed down to John, who was barely breathing through the pain. Sherlock noticed the bottle of sulfuric acid, the tiny label on the side indicated this. John's eyes were glazed and he looked like he'd just come out of being drugged. Which, knowing Moriarty, was a very likely thing. John looked up at him, flicking his dark, sparkling orbs up to his grey ones. His tongue, red and painfully inflamed slipped between his teeth and licked his bottom lip before it curled into a small smile. Everything was silent, the only thing Sherlock could hear was his heart hammering in his chest and pounding in his ears. Sherlock smiled back, just a twitch. He was trying to hold himself together, and smiling wouldn't help anything. A small sound escaped John as his eyes closed for the last time; his last sight was Sherlock, a hero too late to save his victim. Sherlock touched the side of John's neck, looking for a pulse – no, hoping for a pulse. None. Nothing. He suddenly withdrew his hand like it had been electrocuted and held it close to him, cradling it against his chest. He fell back off his hunches and suddenly took off up the stairs and out into the open air. Knowing he wouldn't get any reception down there. He forced tears back and patted down his pockets, digging his hands into every one of them before he realized he'd LOST his mobile. He groaned, Wonderful. Looking around, he saw a woman in a floral dress walking away from him.

"Hey!" he started after her, sprinting like his life depended on it. "Call 999!"

She whirled around with an annoyed look on her face, "Wh-why?"

"Th-there's been a murder. Down below at the controls. Call 999!" he cried.

"Ok, ok, jeeze. Calm your farm."

Present time:

Sherlock lay in John's bed, shaking slightly from the drugs, slowly over dosing. Slowly, slowly. He gave a shaky sigh before tears began to track down his cheeks. The funeral had been slow. An open coffin, he had sat there for most of the time until he gave a speech, just looking at him. Every nook and flaw that was John Watson. He didn't cry. No, not until he was being lowered into the ground did he turn away, hiding. Lestrade had put a hand on his back to comfort him. But as soon as he left him at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had taken over and made Sherlock tea and fruit cake. When she left, he had the flat to himself. And after a few precious seconds of thought he knew he couldn't do anything. He wanted to die. He needed his blogger – no. His… love. He found someone he cared about, someone that he loved like a brother. He'd written something on a pink piece of paper, the color that reminded him of their first case together, three years ago. He wrote: Bury me in the same plot. I don't want him to be lonely. He spent the last few minutes of his life grasping onto his pillow, crying silently until the tears stopped and his eyes closed for the last time.

A/N: Did you cry?