Author's Note: Hi all, this is my first fiction based on Sherlock, but the most recent episode spurred me into action! I hope it's good enough to be associated with the show and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself! Obviously spoilers for the most recent series shown on BBC this January.

Rating is due to some language and the dark themes. I own nothing all respect to the BBC , and Moffat is an evil genius!

I still can't believe he's gone, even though I know it to be the truth. I know I'll never accept that he was a fraud. My work, my life revolved around him and now he's gone. And I have walked around, ghost-like, for weeks now.

I keep thinking I see him, from the corner of my eye or across the street. My therapist says this is normal, part of the grieving process. She may be right but now I know it's a process I'll not see the end of. I've tried, I've tried so hard but I'm tired. Every time I try to sleep I see him fall, again and again, I hear him say "it's what people do isn't it, leave a note?"

So this is me, riding the tube for the last time, looking out at the familiar sights, remembering. I'm so wrapped up in thoughts of him that I even thought I saw him on the platform when I'd gotten on. The man went to a different carriage, I knew it wasn't him, couldn't be him, but the man was even wearing his coat collar flipped up like he used to. When I saw that my heart was in my mouth.

I stare aimlessly out of the window and smirk to myself when I remember sitting with him in Buckingham palace when he was only wearing a bedsheet.

The tannoy announced the next stop and I jumped, the journey had passed even quicker than I'd expected, I took a deep breath and moved towards the doors. When the train stopped I stepped off and allowed myself to be carried by the flood of rush hour commuters, like debris floating in a river. When I was released it took me a while to start moving under my own steam. I felt as if I was being watched but I assumed that that was paranoia and linked to what I was about to do. I wondered briefly why I felt such a compulsion to finish it in this specific way, I mean I could have taken an overdose or any other method. I think I wanted to emulate him, his end, the symbolism of it all... I don't know, I can't even explain it to myself. I don't really remember the walk to the bridge, I know I thought of my sister . The next thing I was aware of was climbing over the guard rail and looking down at the drop. As I stood there, swaying slightly in the wind, I wonder how he had felt, looking down at the street, down at me. I wonder if he was afraid. I stood with my arms tightly coiled round the support struts, trying to work up the courage for what I have to do. I've heard it described as 'the coward's way out', I think I've even called it that myself. But now I find myself here and I discover that a certain type of courage is required, maybe just enough to overcome our innate survival instincts. I was lost in these thoughts and for the first time since his death I wasn't thinking about Sherlock.

That's when I heard his voice, "John." Just that, just my name. I thought I must be imagining it. Just my subconscious trying to appeal to my conscious mind. I shook my head, I'd already decided what I was going to do, I only had to do the deed itself. I hadn't left a note, I couldn't bear to, but I'd updated my will and left it in plain sight on the desk at Baker Street.

"John." I heard it again, seemingly closer this time, but still in that calm, level voice of his, the one he used almost exclusively around me. I'm only hearing his voice because I wish he was here, I told myself, but I know he's not. He's gone and he's not coming back and in a world without him...

I looked down at the drop and for a moment my resolve hardened. That's when the hand gently touched my elbow, I almost fell from sheer shock! I turned around rapidly, after rechecking my grip. As I turned my brain seemed to be paralysed with fear, I was going to be stopped, most likely sectioned, I'd missed my chance. Then all thought stopped as I saw who had grabbed my arm. Those intense blue eyes stared straight into my own as he said, "Please don't do this, John."

I gasped, my brain ground back into action, a habit I'd gained in the Forces, in battle conditions if you let shock freeze you it will probably be the last thing you ever do.

"Okay... so I'm hallucinating?" Some shred of hope must have lingered in my heart for me to phrase this as a question, or I had completely lost my mind and was perfectly comfortable talking to my own creation.

"Would I be able to touch you if I was a hallucination?" I turned away from him, from this impossible vision to look back down at the drop. I screwed my eyes shut feeling the confusion and loss in my mind as a physical pain.

"John?" He sounded slightly uncertain this time.

If this was my own mind talking to me I thought I might as well consider his question. Could he touch me if he was a figment of my own mind. I suppose if it was the creation of my mind he could do anything I wanted him to. I said aloud but more to myself than anything else, "Yes, you must be a hallucination."

I felt his hand tighten on my arm briefly and then after what felt like a year he said, quietly, "Come back over the rail and we can discuss it." I shook my head with my eyes still firmly shut, this was so hard already without having to argue with him, or with the part of my brain that spoke in his voice.

"You don't want to do this." He said.

"I bloody well do!"

Another seemingly mammoth pause, "Okay, poor choice of words, I meant you can't do this, its not in your person to quit like this."

"I didn't think it was in yours either." More silence, "I never saw you give up on anything, I never met anyone as stubborn as you, and yet you did it, you jumped, you gave in."

"I'm sorry, John. I've seen how much pain this has caused you. I don't know if it will be any comfort but I didn't jump because I gave in." A pause, in which his words bombarded my exhausted brain, "I jumped to protect you."

These words may have entered my ears and even my brain but there was only one part that had caught my attention. I turned around again, stared him straight in the face and asked, "You've 'seen how much pain this has caused me'? You were watching me?"

Sherlock took a stepped away, forced back by my sudden fury. I stepped back over the barrier, towards him, and grabbed the front of his shirt, "You watched me go through this suffering? What was I, some experiment? Test how much I care about you by torturing me, is that it?" Despite my fury I was aware that I could physically feel the heat from his body, the weave of his shirt, if this was a hallucination it was surround-sound 'Avatar'- quality!

"John, the assassins. They weren't there for me, Moriarty had one set on you... he told me you'd all only be safe if I died, I thought I could persuade him to call them off but he shot himself... that left me with only one option..." He took a deep breath, it was such a strange sight to see Sherlock stumbling and rushing over his words but I was barely listening.

"You made me watch!" My fury peaked and the fist that was not clenched on his shirt collided with one of his angular cheekbones. I raised my fist to hit him again, he had offered no resistance, when I saw the blood trickle from his nose, and the memory of him on the pavement, the blood all over the paving stones... I released him and ran to the side of the road.

"John!"