John sipped at the drink he had made a few hours ago. It was cold but beat feeling the rawness in his throat from crying.

He hadn't spoken to Molly since he'd visited the morgue after Sherlock's death and she had seemed so distant and was no longer her bouncy self; her hair was a mess and she had cried once John had walked in.

They had sat opposite each other and drank tea while she cried and John watched her, feeling guilty as he couldn't speak. If he did, he was scared he might cry and he had kept to himself until that moment.

John continued to write, the pen shaky in his hand as he tried to write for what seemed like the hundredth time.

All he needed was a miracle and a man can hope, at least, that his best friend returns from the dead. It had been so long since their last phone call and John felt guilt over what he hadn't done to save Sherlock; his only true friend in so long.

It felt heavy in his hands as he fiddled with it, trying to buy himself some more time. Like their so many adventures, John longed to follow Sherlock.

Only this time he had waited until he followed.

His thoughts felt rusty as he cleared his throat, his head replaying his endless beg for his best friend to return.

John dropped the gun onto the table with a clang as he continued his note for Sherlock.

He knew that if Sherlock was alive this was the only way he could get his best friend to return.

The gun seemed to stare at him as if hoping to be used; praying that he would pull that trigger.

John dropped the note, pushing back his chair and standing. The knife was set next to the body, its tip covered in the men's thick blood and the handle worn.

With a wicked smile, staring at the mess of bodies in front of him, he read the note by his feet, checking and making sure each word was perfect and neat; so perfect in fact that Sherlock would recognize it.

"Welcome back, Sherlock," John said, the sirens in the distance alerting him it was his time; this was how it ended and for once, John felt proud of himself.