A/N Hey guys, short chapter, but really important shit going down!

Also, this is really important, so please please read! Basically, I have two ways of ending this story (yes, it is slowly coming to an end), and one is happy, and the other one is not. I am more interested in the sad ending, but I want your input. Please keep in mind, that no one dies or anything in the sad ending, and it will be a lot more realistic. The happy ending is going to be less realistic, and more of a work of a miracle, just keep that in mind!

Also- JohnLockSher, thank you for sticking with me! xoxoxo

~Jules

oOoOo

"Sherlock?" John questions, his body on full alert. "Everything alright?"

Quiety, as if someone could hear them, the detective responds, "Someone's been here."

.

"What do you mean, 'someone's been here'? A rather stupid question, John thinks, because he already knows the answer.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock states plainly, fingers ghosting over the knob.

"Mrs Hudson was in the flat? Sherlock, she's always-"

The detective rudely interrupts, "No. He - yes, he's a man - got into our flat through Mrs Hudson."

Do you ever realize how much of a prick Sherlock is?

Bloody great. "I'll phone her," John turns to his flatmate who appears to not be listening. "Er, Sherlock?"

Why do you care about the old hag so much? She'll be deeeaaddd soon enough.

Is his head now singing?

"No, no, she's just fine, that's obvious. Grab my phone."

"It's in your pocket. Your coat pocket! It is literally less than a foot from you!" The good doctor exclaims, but still retrieves it for some unknown reason.

"Text Lestrade."

"Text him what?" John asks, giving up on trying to deduce anything. "Also, why couldn't I just use my own phone?"

Make your own choices. Use your own phone. Were you always like this? Following everyone elses' orders?

Finally looking away from the door Sherlock turns around, coat swinging behind him, and says, "Don't be dull John, we're using my phone for a reason. Tell Lestrade that I know who the killer is, and that he paid a visit to our flat."

Do this, and now that. Also do this. By all means, do NOT live your own life. Do this for me too, John.

Rubbing a hand over his face John murmurs, "To our flat? You didn't feel like mentioning that earlier?" He then sighs and adds, "He isn't still here though, right?"

"No, of course he's not here right now," The detective says, making a face. "That's elementary, John."

Why do you still put up with him? Hell, why'd you ever put up with him? I didn't realize that you were that pathetic.

Yeesh, again with the questions. Now John's mind is bullying itself.

John finally goes ahead and sends the text:

Sherlock knows the killer, and he's been to our flat. Assistance needed.

The reply was immediate:

Coming now. Need the whole team?

John lifts his thumb to reply, but stops short when he realizes that 1. His flatmate is gone, and 2. The flat door is wide open.

"Dammit, Sherlock," John swears under his breath, then more loudly says, "Sherlock!" Before running in after him.

Mummy Watson has to always worry about Sherlock, right?

To the doctor's surprise, when he walks in, the flat looks exactly how it should. Nothing has changed, no flipped chairs, no fires. The only thing that stands different is a written note that sits on their experiment-less table.

"Interesting…" Sherlock nutters to the air, presumably deducing. He then wipes a finger on the counter and makes a noncommittal noise.

Eyebrows knit in confusion John asks, "Sherlock? Aren't you going to read the letter?"

Stating the obvious? Really? What a feeble attempt for attention.

"No, don't be boring. I already know who the killer is, the note is just the killer trying to be clever." He then opens and closes the cupboard door a few times too many before digging around his pockets.

Unlike his flatmate, John does actually read the note.

Mr Holmes,

I know you've found me, thank's to Miss Marilyn who didn't drown, but died from hypothermia. One does get sloppy in old age. I, on the other hand, want to continue doing what I love. Which is why I am warning you to not tell your dear DI who I am. Because if you do, there will be dire consequences.

Signed, Rupert Myers

Ooh, it's like your life is a dramatic show on the tele. Mrs Hudson would like it, no?

"Sherlock," John starts, frowning, "Are you sure you don't want to read this?"

Without missing a beat the detective replies, "Yes, yes, of course I'm sure. Just throw it away, why don't you. It's no use for anybody."

Think about it though, it could have an interesting theme song too.

"Greg might need it for evidence."

Scoffing, Sherlock replies, "Evidence? What does he need evidence for? I know who the killer is! Evidence is boring. Boring. Bored!" He sudden shouts out, slamming his fist into the counter.

Although then again, no one would watch a show about a freak, right?

"Jesus Sherlock, calm down! Our flat just got broken into, is that not interesting enough for you?"

Well, a freak and his friend, who is a consulting detective.

"It's dull John! Can't you see?" Throwing his hands up he adds, "Oh, I need a case-"

"You're on a case!"

Not used to you being the freak, right? It's always Sherlock being the freak.

"I solved it!" And with that the detective goes to sulk in his room.

To reiterate, why do you put up with him?

John massages his temples and not-so-gracefully sits down in the not broken chair.

You know what sounds great right now?

Again with the questions.

A blade. A nice, cool blade, pressed up against our skin

John instantaneously stills at that. Not the fact that his mind is telling him to cut (that's nothing new), but it's always been "you". Never "our" anything. It's John's skin, not the voice in his head's skin.

Feeling to exposed in the kitchen for this, John climbs up to his room. And just when he thought his day couldn't get any worse, it did. Monumentally worse.

Because beautifully laid out on his bed is John's little grey box. Most of the contents are spilled out, including his old lighters all on display. Next to the box sits a note, and John doesn't have to get close to know that it's written in the same hand writing.

Some sense finally spilling into the doctor's mind, John closes his door and carefully walks up to his bed as if they were explosives rather than plasters. Having absolutely no desire to touch his belongings, John reads to note.

Well, Doctor Watson, this certainly isn't the best habit, now is it? Is this why they locked you away in the Holmes manor? Probably not, given that you still have these. It'd be quite the shame if someone found out, wouldn't it be? Quite the shame, Doctor Watson, quite the same.

The back of John's mind tells him to calm down, sit down, do anything to stop his hyperventilating.

Quite the problem we have now, and I not wrong?

"Stop…" John murmurs, "Not… Not we. It's just me. You're not here!"

If I'm not here, then why on Earth are you talking to me?

Shite, did he say that outloud? Now he really is going crazy.

Can you talk with me? I've been ignored for so long.

John abruptly stands from his bed, then collects everything and puts it back into his little grey box. He then stows it underneath his bed, where it had previously lived since he'd moved in to 221.

After he's finished with that, there's a knock at the door, so John goes down to unlock it, knowing that Sherlock won't. Unsurprisingly, Lestrade walks in.

"You alright there?"

"Hmm?" John asks, trying to ignore his jumper scratching the sensitive skin on his stomach.

"You look a little bit… Rattled." The DI clarifies, still looking at the doctor with a strange face.

"Er, you know, I'm fine. Just, everything that's been happening." Eager to change the subject John nods to the table and said, "The murderer left a note. Thought you'd want to check it out."

"Ah Christ. A note?" Lestrade runs a hand through his hair and says, "By the time this is all over I'm not going to have any hair."

John laughs a bit at that and shows Lestrade to the table and to their one working chair. "Apparently the killer's name is Rupert Myers. Ring a bell?" John mentally curses himself for saying that, due to the threat of something bad happening. Oh well. No point in mentioning it now.

"Rupert? No, but Myers is familiar. Darrein Myers robbed a few banks some time ago, but nothing close to cold murder." The DI says, racking his brain for any more information.

Handing off the letter John says, "Here you go. Sherlock didn't read it. He was convinced that it was useless."

Smiling, Lestrade says, "Yeah, sounds like him. Speaking of which, where is he?"

"Sulking in his room."

"Sounds even more like him. Now, this note." Lestrade finally latches his eyes onto the page and begins to read. By the end, he's frowning, but he forgets about his upside down smile when he looks away and sees John.

The DI immediately stills, and slowly lowers the note. "John?" He wearily asks, taking in the good doctor fully.

John is barely standing, shaking and hyperventilating, as well as a look of pure fear on his face. Lestrade doesn't know how he went from calm and collected to terrified, and he doesn't really want to know.

Knowing that the other flatmate is still in his room Lestrade quietly calls for him, as to not provoke the man in front of him. "Sherlock? Can you come out here?" The inspector then reaches out his right hand toward his friend, which turned out to be the wrong thing to do.

John responds in almost the same second, "No! No, get-get away!" He starts to back away, in an effort to protect himself.

Really? I thought that we were stronger than that. Whatever happened to that soldier inside of us?

A growl comes out of John before he speaks again, surprising Lestrade and now Sherlock, who has silently come out of his room. "Not true. Not 'us'! Never us! It's just me!" Then more quietly she adds, "Jus-just me…"

Oh, but that's not quite true, now is it?

"John?" Through the back of John's mind he hears someone calling his name, but he can't pinpoint who's saying it, and now the world is spinning…

Seeing John sway, Lestrade instinctively reaches out to steady him, but he instead is greeted with the surprising strength of the ex soldier.

Holding the DI's arm in a vice, John stares him down, obviously not recognizing him as the well known Detective Inspector. And then in an instant John jerks Lestrade's arm down, eliciting a nauseating pop, which seems to echo around the small flat. Thank goodness Mrs Hudson is out doing the shopping.

Along with the pop comes a half groan half yell from Lestrade, which in turn finally snaps John out of whatever he's in.

When he finally sees what's happening around him, John holds his breath for a good four seconds, watching Lestrade pant, look down, and clutch his shoulder. "Oh God.." John eventually chokes out. He runs to the flat door, eager to get out of this nightmare, before Sherlock steps in front of him and prevents him from leaving.

"John, no, John, look at me. John!" In a rare display of affection Sherlock grasps his friend's shoulders, and forces him to look up. "John, calm down. Just stay here for a minute. Please?"

Between new forming sobs, John slowly nods, but then falls down to his knees. He doesn't think that he'd have enough strength to go anywhere even if Sherlock wasn't blocking the door. "Lestrade?" John murmurs into the floor, refusing to do anything else.

But when Sherlock doesn't answer (or Lestrade himself) John is forced to look back up. What he sees is Lestrade leaning over their one functioning chair, holding his shoulder in pain. Lestrade also glances up to look at John, and before he can stop it, a look of fear and a tad bit of betrayal crosses his face. He tries to hide it immediately after, but he knows that the doctor saw it. The damage was done.

John pushes Sherlock away, bewildering all three of the men with his strength, and leaves Baker Street.

The two detectives continue to stare at the open door, as if John will come back.

But they know better.

John is not going to be coming.

He's not going to be back to normal any time soon.

Through the pain, Lestrade knows that the world has just lost a wonderful man.

He then gives Sherlock a look, takes out his mobile, and texts Donovan.

I'll be late -GL

How long? -SD

As long as it takes -GL

And with that cryptic text, Lestrade finally lets himself slip.

"We've fucked up. We've fucked up good."

oOoOo

A/N Please please talk to me about endings, even if you have your own ideas or anything! I just really want some input from you all :)