AN: Wow. You guys are great. So much support already. I've got a few other stories I've been neglecting, but seeing as I already had this chapter written and you guys have just blown me away with your liking and following, I decided what the heck? Might as well post.

Thanks go to: Totallynewmerlinfan2013, Sir Sherlock of Tardis, jenpix, Pyroclast17, Imutaski, and greenwitch88 for their likes/follows!

John cleared his throat in the empty room and readjusted his grip on the gun in his hand. He stared at the wall opposite him and tried to quell the storm roiling in his head. There were so many things he had left unsaid to Sherlock; the times he wanted to tell him what a twit he had been, the times he wanted to tell him his deductions were brilliant, the times he wanted to tell him that he cared for him. But what good would it have done in the end—

The end.

Sherlock had left him in the end. He'd seen death before. He was an invalided army doctor, for Christ's sake. He'd had men die in his own hands. He'd taken a bullet himself. But nothing, not his time spent in Afghanistan, not his time spent studying crime scenes with Sherlock Holmes, had prepared him for the utter horror at seeing his closest friend bleed out on a London sidewalk.

He placed the gun to his lips, let cold metal meet soft flesh, and closed his eyes tight against the vivid memory that flashed through his mind. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted it all to go away. He stroked the trigger tenderly, as though he was caressing a lover… as though he was brushing dark curls from sharp cheekbones. He supposed he could take another bullet easily enough—if it would mean the end.

He had been so alone in London before he met Sherlock. He had been too miserable to barely leave that sorry excuse for a flat he had been living in. But Sherlock had brought so much happy change to his life. Sherlock had been a man who finally understood John's turmoil, something his own therapist still didn't see. Sherlock was someone he felt comfortable with. Not to mention all the others that had been brought into his life since he first agreed to move to 221B. There was Greg Lestrade from Scotland Yard, Molly Hooper from St. Bart's, even Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, the only two who still came to check up on him now and then. Mrs. Hudson would make him a cup of tea and try to distract his dark thoughts by prattling on about crap telly. Mycroft, he suspected, only came around to slowly collect what remained of his brother's possessions.

John secretly despised him for that, for taking away what little of Sherlock remained in the flat. Little by little, John was left with barely anything to hold on to. Sure, he had the couch that he imagined still retained the impression of Sherlock's body as he so often stretched out on the cushions to think. He had the chair the enigmatic detective would perch on, steepled fingers under his chin, as he deduced and re-deduced every aspect of a case. And, John thought with a small pang of embarrassment, he had the pillows resting on his bed that had once been on Sherlock's.

He pressed the gun a little harder into his mouth. Oh god, he just wanted it to stop.

The piercing sound of his ringtone made John jump. He knew that tone, but couldn't believe it was playing. Was it a joke? He set the gun in his lap and reached for his mobile. His shaking fingers could barely unlock the device, and when they had, he stared at the screen in disbelief.

Angelo's. Twenty Minutes.

SH

No.

No, surely it couldn't be. It had to be a prank. Probably Mycroft. Though, John wondered, would the older Holmes brother be so cruel? Whatever the reason, he had to investigate who the bloody hell thought it would be okay to send him a message from the mobile of his dead friend.

He sprung from his armchair, leaving the gun on the cushion, and made a dash for his coat. As he swung the familiar material over his jumper, he called to Mrs. Hudson as he shot down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out. Don't wait up!"

As he set down the sidewalk in he chilly evening air, John tried to keep his thoughts objective: Find out who the imposter was, because it just had to be an imposer. There was no other logical explanation. And then proceed to beat the ever living shit out of them for playing sick games with him.

Still, John couldn't help the small sprout of hope blossoming in his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had heard him and had performed one last miracle, just for him—just for Doctor John Watson.

AN: One chapter left. The reunion. Gee.

I think I should explain the title. I feel that in A Study in Pink, the Angelo's scene, besides being completely adorable, was a big setup in the Johnlock ship. As it's been said, "When the world's most observant man thinks you're flirting with him, you probably are." I feel that this scene, as early as it occurs in their relationship, is when they both realize that attraction, or at least its potential. It's the beginning, so to speak.

Now, explanations aside, I'd also like to thank you for reading and shamelessly plug my other Johnlock fic, A Man Rather than a Machine. It's set up like this one-one Sherlock chapter, one for John, and then a final with both. It's also long overdue for an update. So, I'm going to go work on that.

Again, thank you so much for reading and I hope you're looking forward to the finale!