Sherlock stumbled through many of the buildings, sleep weighing him down. He round corners, hoping to see the figure he was desperately searching for. Come on, John. Where are you? Thoughts screamed in Sherlock's head, each one hoping to be louder than the last; each trying to be heard. He's dead, just give up. ThErE's No UsE iN tRyInG aNyMoRe. HE DOESN'T WANT YOU ANYMORE; HE'S GIVEN UP. NOW LEAVE HIM! Sherlock grasped at his head, his breathing becoming heavier and heavier.

"NO! I CAN'T GIVE UP! NOT ON JOHN!" Sherlock screamed into the air, and he collapsed to the ground, sobbing into his hands. He was being broken

down, piece by piece, his thoughts not helping in the slightest. His whole body shook, and tears stained his cheeks. His thoughts were focused on John, the only person in the world he cared about, the only person he lov-.

He looked up from his hands, ruffling his hair out of his eyes, and wiped his eyes. His arms cradled his torso, and he slowly stood up, and immediately feel against the nearest wall. Sleep was slowly creeping up on him.

"Not giving up..." he whispered to himself, maybe for encouragement, or maybe to keep himself happy. He walked out of the building, looked around,

and headed into the next one to resume his feeble search.

John laid on the ground in the corner, feeling the pain of the poison rushing through his veins. His whole body felt paralyzed, not even his toes wiggled slightly. He breathed in raggedly. Oh God, it hurts! Oh, please, make it stop. MAKE IT STOP! John's face grimaced in the pain. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he couldn't stop them from slipping over his eyelids, and slide down his face. I-I should've gone with the gu-gun. He tried to lift his arms, though everything was in slow motion, even the blinking of his eyes. He deliberately raised his hand to his face, wiping his eyes, taking in another breath. He could feel his heart beginning to slow; his breaths became more and more shallow. It shouldn't be too long now. His thoughts plagued the inside of him mind, making him relive everything he was leaving behind, everything he was escaping.

"How did you know about the smoking?" he asked Sherlock as he sat next to him in the cab. He stared at the man next to him, a small smirk on his face.

Sherlock half-grinned back, and looked forward.

"As always, you see, but do not observe," he replied to John, receiving a pestered look, though it was familiar to him by now.

"How so?" John finally inquired, moving some hair out his eyes. Sherlock beamed at him, and removed a glass dish out from under his coat.

"Ashtray." He twiddled it in his hands before handing it to a delighted John, who looked it over, laughing.

John whimpered softly, sobs escaping through his numb lips. The poison that coursed through his veins felt more like fire now, and he scowled. His body was becoming cold, and he growing sleepy, which he knew was a sign of how much time he had left. 5 minutes, at the most. From inside his pocket, and took the note, and placed it next to head, the "To Sherlock" side facing upward. The envelope was tear stained as well as the rest of the note, and John's eyes were drooping steadily, his heartbeat slowing down to only about 20 times a minute. He body was becoming heavy and cold, and he breathed delicately. He forced the breaths out of his body, hoping to extend his time only slightly. More thoughts raced through he mind, though he tried to push them down.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asked the first time they had met. John stood close to the door, and Mike Stamford

messed with some of the test tubes dispersed around the lab.

"What's wrong with the land line?"

"I prefer to text." He replied, not looking up from his microscope. Mike felt around his jacket in vain.

"Must be in my other coat, sorry." Sherlock sighed quietly, looking back towards his sample. John took the chance to meet this stranger, the only way he could think of. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his own mobile.

"Here, use mine." He said casually, holding the phone out to this man, Mr. Holmes.

"Oh. Thank you." Mr. Holmes replied, sounding surprised. He stood up from where he sat, and gracefully made his way over to where John stood. Oh, God, he walks with such, grace, John remarked as Mr. Holmes strode over to him. He handed him the phone, which he immediately opened, and typed something out.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John looked up the figure in front of him, stunned.

"I'm sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"...Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-?"

John snapped out of his thoughts when he heard rustling upstairs, footsteps. Who the hell could be up there? John thought to himself. He backed up against the wall slightly, turning away from where he entered. 3 more minutes. Almost there. I can hold out, I know I can. The footsteps and noise from upstairs quickened, and John coughed slightly, turning away once again. The footsteps over top of him stopped. Crap, they heard me. The footsteps began running, but not away; they were getting closer to him. No, please, just leave me alone. I'm tired, just leave me be. The footsteps were getting louder and louder until they were almost in the room John was laying in.

"John?" A deep voice came from behind him, hardly above a whisper. John opened his eyes, recognizing the voice immediately. He turned slowly,

grimacing as his body moved. He sighed and grunted as he stared at the figure that was know kneeling next to him.

"Sherlock..." John sighed as his heart was getting slower and slower. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, not wanting to see Sherlock,

because he knew there was no refunds; what he had done was irreversible John felt a warm palm grab his hand, and hold on tightly, and his opened his blood shot eyes once more, and looked at Sherlock. Please, let me remember this face, the eyes, the hair, the voice. Oh, please don't let me forget.

"I'm sor-sorry." John stuttered as his grip on Sherlock began to loosen, and his head nodded to the side. Cold rushed up his arm, to Sherlock's own

hand, and Sherlock pinched his eyes closed, tears appearing.

"I'm too late. No, John, come back. Please..." Sherlock whispered in denial as he continued to hold onto his friend's hand, even though it wouldn't do

anything to help the man in front of him. Sherlock moved John into his arms, hugging his tightly, and began to sob into his hair, the cries echoing throughout the building around them.