It was night. Everything was made dark by the absence of the sun as my life had become through the absence of John.

I journeyed to an oak tree and stood upon a low hanging branch. From this vantage point I could observe 221B in privacy, but there was one thing that my eyes returned to over and over again. The bedroom window that had once been John's. Bringing from the depths of my coat a short coil of rope, I sighed and recounted mournfully what my life had become.

...Everything I prized about myself had fallen significantly in quality...

...Most terrifying of the aforementioned was my brain deterioration...

Although my legs fully recovered I had developed a psychosomatic limp. It infuriated me. The bitter irony!

But quickly I had come to the conclusion that there could be no life after John Watson. The proof? All I had ended up with was a hellish downward spiral. There had been no revelations, no ghostly visitors and no heartfelt note to help ease the pain of his passing.

But I was being selfish. John's death affected other people too.

However the effects of my own heartbreak only added to my friend's discomfort...

I relived seeing the utter disappointment in Lestrade's eyes as I struggled to present the relevant deductions about a case. He'd lost his job because of my inability to cope without John.

I relived seeing the horror in Mrs Hudson's eyes when she found me in 221B in the middle of a suicide attempt.

I relived seeing Molly's crumpled face as I was caught trying to steal medication from the mortuary cabinet.

I had worried all my friends. And I knew it had to stop.

Tonight I would end my suffering.

The custom dyed dark blue rope felt course and rough beneath my fingers. The roughness felt oddly soothing on my neck, a welcome respite from all the other irksome suicide attempts.

Shuffling my feet to the very edge I readied myself for the final plunge. The final problem.

As if on cue, a stern faced man emerged from the shadows. His clothes hung loosely from his bony, angular frame like rags on a skeleton. We stood motionless. Neither made an aggressive move towards the other, even though we had every reason to do so.

" I knew I'd find you here." He said in a quiet, collective voice whilst picking his way over fallen branches and logs.

" Sebastian Moran." I said in greeting.

" Sherlock Holmes." He nodded respectfully in my direction then athletically clambered onto a branch beside mine. He too uncoiled his hanging rope.

" For Moriarty." He said, surprisingly answering the unspoken question wavering on my tongue.

I understood completely. He too was pining after a friend. And although I was with the angels and he with the demons, we had both found mutual kinship through the suffering.

" For John Watson." I said firmly.

We shared a pointed glance and simultaneously stepped into the abyss.

The ground rose up to embrace us, but our undeniable loyalty to the deceased yanked us away.

I toward the sky, towards Heaven, towards John.

And Sebastian Moran toward perdition, towards Moriarty.

And then two men who couldn't have been more different yet so similar found peace side-by-side swinging by their necks from different branches of the same oak tree.

In later years the tree would be revered and yet, even when it was scorned and laughed at, everyone respected the emotions that brought Sherlock and Sebastian Moran to the tree that night. The simple pact to end their lives together unified them so strongly.

But below Sherlock's suspended form lay a small note dampened by the morning dew.

It read;

I couldn't do this without you John,

Forever your high-functioning sociopath,

Sherlock Holmes.