Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.

This is the final chapter and I just wanted to thank everyone who reviewed and read it. There'll be more to come from me soon, I'm sure. Thanks again, and here you go.

John moved back in the following Saturday, relieved that he wouldn't have to send checks to Mycroft anymore. Sherlock tried to make his adjustment go smoothly, but their friendship had been rocky ever since John's late night declaration. The nightmares continued, for both of them, but they were handled differently.

The soldier would stumble wearily out of his room in the wee hours of the morning, only to be met by an equally tired Sherlock and a warm cup of tea. They'd talk about their dreams, which provided varying levels of comfort for each party involved. Then, the two would return to their respective beds and fall back asleep, only to repeat the scene the next night.

Life went on for the detective and his blogger, they continued flying around the streets and catching the criminals. But, as Sherlock should have known, James Moriarty had ideas in mind for the two other than simple domestic life. No, the villain had much more devastating plans. However awful his scheme was, it was, at least, equally poetic.

It began and ended in Bart's Hospital. That was where John and Sherlock had first met, with an exchanging of handshakes and cell phones, a tightly knit bond was formed. So it was only right that the bond should break there as well. There were 3 gunmen, each pointed at three people, but Sherlock only ever said goodbye to one of the targets.

John Watson had stood out from the moment he'd entered that laboratory. Both lives had been reinvented after that first meeting, the fabric of fate remade. Sherlock was broken without his blogger, but that was a weakness he should have kept secret. Jim picked up on it and used the gentle doctor against Sherlock.

These thoughts raced through the brilliant mind so precariously balanced on that hospital rooftop. A stout figure climbed out of the cab, a phone pressed tight against his ear, and Sherlock knew that was him. "Turn around and walk back the way you came now." The rest of the words spilled from Sherlock's mouth as if they'd been waiting there the whole time.

"I can't come down, so we'll… We'll just have to do it like this." John's face drained of color as he realized what was happening. Sherlock desperately tried to convince his friend that all he was, all he had done, was a lie. The man down on the ground refused to believe it, but Sherlock held fast to his story, needing John to live, needing John to survive.

"This phone call. It's my note." Sherlock's resolve wavered and he made an adjustment to his speech. "Since I won't have the chance to say this later, I have to say it now. You told me once that you loved me, and you were scared."

"I don't see what that has to do-" came the protests through the small speaker on Sherlock's phone.

"Just let me speak, John." The silence that followed gave the ruined man permission to continue. "You told me once that you loved me. You said you were frightened. I need to know, John, what were you frightened of?"

"You" followed the response. "I was so frightened that you would leave and go somewhere else, not wanting to be weighed down by some bloody fool who was in love with you." John's voice faltered. "Sherlock, would you just tell me what is going on? Come down, and we can talk like normal men."

"Ah, but John, we aren't normal men. I am a fraud and you are exceptional. I am incapable of love and a right blasted fool when it comes to people, but I never wavered in my affections for you. I do not love you, John, but any affection I have for this world belongs wholly to you. I met you at a time when I needed you. I used to think that would go away, but it hasn't. My need for your companionship and for your steady thinking has been constant and at times, overwhelming."

"Sherlock…" The small head shook, seeming so insignificant from where Sherlock stood, but he knew better than to think that.

"Let me finish." His eyes filled with emotion that had been bottled up for months and months and tears finally slipped past those long eyelashes, blurring Sherlock's vision of the ground. He blinked rapidly to clear it, wanting to see John's form below. "This image in your head that you have of me, this picture of a hero, you need to change it. I am not a hero, I am afraid."

"You're wrong." John's voice was stronger than Sherlock had ever heard it, with conviction and assuredness behind it. "You're so wrong, please come down. Please, Sherlock." His voice broke as he pleaded, desperation giving him an edge.

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock took a deep breath. "Goodbye, John." He could hear the shout from below as he fell. John stood in utter horror, as his friend plummeted from the rooftop. There was no way back now. The detective was gone, his life's works unraveled, and his best friend wrecked.

"I checked his pulse myself. I saw him fall. Jesus, no one could survive that fall." John's words seemed to shake the fragile foundation of his mind, the walls threatening to tear down. His therapist nodded, and her pencil scratched against the paper, noting something that John didn't care about.

"Have you visited his grave?" She asked gently, as if afraid of breaking the thin barrier between sanity and mindless chaos. He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. "Maybe you should go. Just talk it out. It might be good for you. I also think you should keep up your blog, just talking about what you do."

With a quiet shake of his head, the therapy session ended. After time passed, John fell into the old rhythms of life. He returned to his old job at Bart's and made friends with his colleagues, going out for a pint around every week. 221B remained his home, but slowly the traces of Sherlock faded into the background. There was no cup of tea waiting for him when he woke in the middle of the night, so John would make his own. Sherlock was an echo around the flat, no longer a looming presence, but the resident still felt the loss.

John did visit the grave, but not until a year later. He'd seen it before, for the funeral, which had been sparse and rather quiet. It was a glossy black headstone with two words etched into it with a sort of finality. There was no other inscription below his name, just Sherlock Holmes, standing out on a grave of otherwise mundane marble, just as he did when he was alive.

It was the kind of gravestone you couldn't look at for too long without being reminded of the ever-looming presence of death. John never wanted to go back, after the funeral, being reminded too much of his friend. But he broke down and visited on the anniversary of his death.

Sherlock wouldn't have liked that, he would have told John that it didn't matter what date he visited on, anniversaries were trivial and used as a means for businesses to make money off of people buying gifts. John didn't care, he paid for a bouquet of white roses and made the trip up to honor his friend.

He wasn't expecting to see someone already there. A hunched figure squatted in front of the stone, their hand resting on the top. John approached and asked, just loud enough for the person to hear, but not so loud as to disturb the unnatural peace of the graveyard, "Hey, you doing alright?"

The man turned, dried tear tracks tracing down his cheeks. John's flowers dropped to the ground. By God, he knew those cheeks, those angular features, the perfect Cupid's bow, the prominent cheekbones, and those glittering, multicolored eyes. He knew that man crying by Sherlock's grave, but it didn't make sense. How could he be there, how could he possibly be there?

The corners of the man's mouth tilted up slightly. "Hello John."

The End