I gripped his hand, refusing to let go. The men around me tried to pull me away, and I would have complied if it wasn't for who it was I was holding on to. The memories came back to me, everything; the cases, the game of cluedo, the tea. The incidents between us leading up to his death. I refused to move from his side, if he was still alive I would be gripping his hand hard enough to leave white marks, yet the blood flow was no longer there. I reached across to his other hand, and brought them both up to my lips. Who cares who see's. He's dead now what does it matter. I kiss his hands gently, and whisper into them. Whisper the words I wanted to tell him so badly.

"John Watson, I'm a man of many words, but not a man of emotions, so excuse my lack of romantics. I love you, please John, come back to me, please."

The tears fell from my eyes again landing on his hand; they still tried to pull me away from him. I heard a familiar voice calling me to leave his side, to let the men take him away.

"Sherlock come on, please. I know this must be incredibly hard on you. Watching him be killed, forgetting him remem... Oh."

As Lestrade approached the ambulance he saw the way I held my lips against the dead man's hand His words cut out at the sight, he knew. I looked up at him, begging him in my eyes to let me have my last chance alone with John.

"Give him 5 minutes. I don't care what protocol states, I'm telling you to give him 5 minutes!"

I made a mental note to thank him later. The hands pulling at me released their grip and the ambulance was emptied. The doors closed and the light was cut out, everything fell silent. It all seemed so surreal. My hands held his tightly against my chest, trying to bring him back. If only I had told him before, if I had told him how I felt, how I had always felt about him, instead of being my arrogant self then I wouldn't have left the flat, he wouldn't have been left alone giving Moriarty the chance to be alone with him, he would still be alive.

I may not have pulled the trigger, but his death was nobody's fault but my own.

"I'm sorry I never told you this before, and now your death is on my hands. Moriarty has won; I have nothing left to play for. He took away my life John."

I held his hands tighter, pleading him with them to come back to life. Praying my words would start his heart again. Heal the hole that the bullet had created.

"John please, I can't... not anymore. Don't leave. Just don't be dead, you're amazing and spectacular. I should never have left the flat, it is my fault alone. Don't you see? I just couldn't see you, couldn't be in your presence without falling...falling ever deeper for you. It was too...m- much for me, and my selfishness has l-lost me my only true friend, and the only one I ever... loved."

My words started breaking, the words slipping between my tongue. I had so much to tell him and no time to do so. He was a dead body, and I knew it to be true, that once dead there is no person in there, yet I felt the need to talk to him. I tried to speak again, force the words out from between my lips, yet my body disobeyed me. I could not do anything but weep into his chest. The blood drenched clothing, worn by both me and him, was still damp with fresh blood. I let his hand slide from mine, holding his body now, bringing his lips to mine.

Cold. That's all they were, cold and lifeless. There was no warm John in this body any more. I rested my head against his and silently cried against him. My body had never deceived me as much as it was now. I heard something fall, hit the floor. Metal on metal. My eyes shot open, and I made my way around John to see what had fallen. I looked around but couldn't see anything, and then my eyes fell on his phone.

The police didn't need this. John was gone and there was nothing I could do about it, I went back to him, placed one last kiss on him and held his hand.

"Goodbye John."

His phone was hidden inside my jacket, I wiped the tears away. No one needed to see this. I couldn't have people thinking I was sentimental and weak. The doors of the ambulance opened, and Lestrade jumped back, the shock of seeing me straight in front of him. I stepped down, forcing him to move to the side to let me through.

"Sherlock, I really think you need to stop and talk to someone."

He was trying, and I still needed to thank him,. Talk about what? John has been murdered and Moriarty needed to be caught. That was all there was.

"No Lestrade, I do not need to stop. In fact, I will not stop under Moriarty has joined John. Get your men on it, I'll contact Mycroft and see what he can find out about his whereabouts. There will be no court case. I will take care of everything."

Find Moriarty. -SH

He didn't protest, he knew better. He allowed me to walk back up to the flat, Mrs. Hudson was in tears. A shock I suppose.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry to hear!"

She reached over to hug me, why do people insist on touching me now? I pushed her away and carried on past her. Everyone was calling me; wanting my attention. There were no clues anywhere as to where Moriarty had gone. There were only the remains of John. The only clue I had was my own memory of what had happened. No one had any reason to be here anymore.

"Out. All of you. Get out!"

Silence fell as I raised my voice. Everyone looked at me; I wished they would stop this. I pushed as many as I could towards the door encouraging them all to leave. This was mine and Johns... my flat and only I needed be here. Eventually they all caught on, slow minds, and left. Each with their own comments and condolences for my loss. They make it seem as if he was a pet, but John was so much more than that. They left, unwillingly, but they left. The flat fell silent. I assured the last couple of people I would be fine, and told Lestrade if I needed him I would call straight away.

The door shut, finally, and I was alone. Nothing had changed except for the blood stain on the carpet reminding me what I was still wearing. I walked over to my room to get changed. Shirt and trousers didn't seem fitting, finding clothes didn't seem like an appropriate use of time so I just wrapped myself in my bed sheet and left the room, there was nothing in there of usefulness. The phone never left my hand, subconsciously refusing to let it go. I didn't need sleep as everyone advised. Walking back to the scene, John's room catches my eye, everything was the way he left it. I walked in, the light making its way through the closed curtains barely made a difference. It was dark; I kind of liked it that way. The bed was made, tucked in at the sides, a habit from his days in the forces I suspected. Sitting on the bed, my hand ran over the top of it, remembering the dream I had witnessed.

I was tired, this wasn't a lie, but a fact. I did need sleep, yet it didn't seem important or even appropriate. I'd been in the flat before when John hadn't been around, yet now it felt so empty. He was never going to home, yelling at for forgetting the milk. He knew I did it on purpose just to wind him up. Cautiously I walked over to his bed and laid a hand upon it, then the rest of me followed. Soon enough I was curled up in his bed. My knees pulled in, my arms pulled in as well. The phone close to my heart. I knew there were things on it that John would write down so he didn't have to keep them in his head. I wondered if I had ever been mentioned. I couldn't bring myself to look at it, despite the fact he died with it in his hands. The smell of John surrounded me, I pulled the duvet up closer around me, brought it up covering everything but my eyes. I let them close, breathing in everything I could. The tears fell once again. I hated how much this man had made me lose control, and become more human, yet he was the only person in the world to make me feel. Instead of just being a body with a brain, I could feel. The pain was too much, the memories with him, the memory of him dying. It was too much, it hurt. I couldn't keep it contained in me. It was too much, I sat up slightly, looking through his draw.

His pocketknife.

It wasn't ideal, it wasn't overly sharp, but it would do. I wasn't even sure of what I was doing. I just had to relieve this pain. I brought the knife to the arm holding the phone, and lowered it until it was level with the wrist. Gently I pressed it against the flesh, the cold was the first thing to feel. Nothing happened, no pain relief. I pressed harder until I could feel the blood run down my hand. It felt better, but only slightly. A heavy sigh was released from the pleasure it gave, the satisfaction of knowing I was repaying John in the slightest way. I had murdered him and now I would repay him blood. I would find Moriarty and kill him, but I needed to give John my share of the guilt. I repeated this process over my entire arm until blood ran freely down my arm. The pain still lived in me, but it had been eased. They were deep some of them, enough that would have called John to panic and stitch them. I would not trust any other doctor now except John. It could wait until the morning, I climbed out of his bed. The tears stopped falling with the first draw of blood. I walked into the bathroom and washed them down. It stung, it was compensation for what I had done to John. The sink filled with red, more than there should be. I started to feel dizzy but pushed through this bodily hindrance. The towel nearest to me was placed on my arm, applying pressure to the deepest wounds. I didn't want blood in Johns bed. I felt the need to stay the night there.

I would repeat this process every day until I had repaid John in full.