[John]

Three days. Three bloody days. To be completely honest, a part of me had been hoping that Sherlock would have decided he was being childish and come running back to Baker Street by now. Apparently this was a greater deal than I had originally thought. He obviously didn't need me as much as I had needed him. Maybe he had decided after returning that he no longer cared for me in the same way, and had just been waiting for the opportunity to ditch me. Well, if that was the case, he must have been overjoyed. Maybe the whole drug thing was a rouse, and he just wanted me gone. To be honest though, it didn't seem like the kind of thing he'd pull, being a self-proclaimed sociopath, he could tell anyone and everyone exactly how he felt about them without being conscious of their feelings. I knew, I had seen him hurt many in that way before. It was no wonder that I was the first proper friend he'd had.

I wished that I knew exactly what was going on in that gigantic brain of his, but I was no Sherlock Holmes. I was John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, army doctor and loyal sidekick to the world's only Consulting Detective. I wouldn't even try to deny that I wasn't seen as the sidekick by the public, after all, Sherlock was the tall and intelligent hero with the perfect hair and cheekbones, and I was John Watson, the slightly short and uninteresting blogger. Nothing special there.

A gentle knocking at the door, accompanied by Lestrade's muffled shout found its way into my thoughts, and I considered whether I could be bothered to get up. I didn't really feel like talking today, as it had only really just hit me that I might never live with Sherlock again. The man had been a permanent fixture in my life before the fall, and when we had rejoined each other's company I had all too easily settled back into the routine.

Sighing, I got up and let Lestrade in, hoping that a quick cup of tea and very short answers to his questions would drive him away. Apparently I had run out of luck years ago, and it hadn't returned, as he declined the tea and asked for a beer instead. I fetched him one, and slowly made myself a tea so that I could postpone conversation for as long as possible.

He had visited me three times since I had returned to Baker Street, and I really couldn't tell why he was bothering. I mean, it wasn't like I could just ask him. The DI had ignored my minimal participation in the conversation and chatted away happily, telling me about various cases at his work with as much enthusiasm as Sherlock would undoubtedly have had. Why did all my thoughts always return to him? Why was my life centred around one man, who barely showed any affections, and insulted me almost every minute of the day?

"John? Are you even listening?" Lestrade's tone was filled with mock-anger, and he held a smile on his face, but I could see the concern in his eyes. I wanted to tell him everything, but I just couldn't. He wouldn't understand.

"I'm fine. Just a bit tired." I said instead. I thought he would nod and just continue with his story, but surprisingly he didn't.

"I didn't ask if you were fine, John. Which leads me to believe that you aren't in fact 'fine' at all. Talk to me, I can help!" He said, and for a second I was going to admit everything, my worries about Sherlock, the possibility of both of us being mentally unstable, all of it. However, just when I opened my mouth, something in my brain just snapped, and I was filled with uncontrollable rage.

"You can't help me!" I growled at him, and part of me was shocked at this sudden change. "Everyone thinks that they can help, that they know what I'm going through, but they don't! Why can't you understand that?!" The same part of me that had been shocked was now also horrified. Why was I treating Lestrade like this? He had only been trying to help! I felt trapped inside my own mind, unable to stop the angry words that were pouring out of my mouth. Lestrade seemed unable to believe what I was saying either, as his jaw had gone slack in confusion, and I could see him trying to figure out where this change had come from.

"I was just offering my support, John! You don't need to use it!" He was being defensive now, and I desperately wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his offer, but it seemed that wasn't going to happen.

"How could you possibly expect to be able to provide support, Greg? You can barely deal with your own problems! Maybe that's why your wife kept cheating on you..." Something was definitely wrong. I would never bring anything like that into an argument, no matter what. I was growing more and more worried by the second.

Greg gaped at me, and I could feel my lips move into a smirk. "That was an awful thing to say, John! While I can understand that you have problems, so do the rest of us, as you've just pointed out! You don't need to be such an asshole, you're beginning to sound like Sherlock!"

What happened next took both of us completely by surprise. I lunged at Lestrade, grabbing him and tackling him to the ground, screeching at the top of my lungs, "How dare you bring him into this?! How dare you?!"

He rolled on the floor, trying desperately to shove me off him, but I had him pinned down. The man tried to plead with me, but the part of me that was in control wasn't listening to his pleas. That's when it got worse.

I could feel my hand curl into a fist, but I only realised where I was heading once I had brought it back. Mentally, I was screaming in horror and self-loathing, but on the outside I was grinning in pleasure as I brought my hand down hard right onto my friend's face. The impact knocked the air out of him, and the poor man lay there for a few seconds, stunned out of his mind from what had just happened.

"Greg..." I managed to whisper as I gained control for a matter of seconds. He must have recognised that something was going on, as he used that moment to push me off him and start scrambling to his feet. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep control, and I felt anger bubble inside me as I, too, rose to my feet. We stood like that for a few moments, drinking in the sight of each other. I could see the fear in Lestrade's eyes, and I wanted to tell him to run, as fast as he could, but I knew that even if I asked him to go, he wouldn't leave. I was a danger to the public, if I was open to the idea of attacking a friend, who knew what I'd do to a stranger?

"John... Please, stop this. Let me call someone to come over, let me get you some help. If I have to call Mycroft, I will. Hell, if I have to drag Sherlock over here-" he continued with his fearful ramblings, but I stopped listening. My heart stopped in cold fear, and if I had been in control, I'm certain I would have been shaking. Well, if I was in control, my hand certainly wouldn't have been reaching for the gun in the back of my trousers.

No. God, no. Not Lestrade. Please. He's my friend. I don't want to hurt him.

It was no use.

My hand closed around the gun. Lestrade didn't notice, he was too busy trying to convince me to let him help. Every part of me that still had morals was trying to stop the movement of my arm, but there was nothing I could do as the gun found its way to my front, and I clicked the safety off.

Lestrade caught sight of the gun pointed at him and finally seemed to realise that all was lost, and he stopped trying to reason with me. Fear was replaced with a cold acceptance of his fate, and he even went so far as to close his eyes.

My arm shook, but not enough that there was a chance I could miss. The gun was perfectly in line with the DI's heart. My mental screams were amounting to nothing.

I attempted to reason with my own mind, filling it with happy memories of conversations with Greg, drinks at the pub and movie nights. Still, my hand barely wavered, and my fingers clicked the safety off. I gave it one last shot as I pulled the trigger, thinking about how upset Sherlock would be if I killed Greg. Then the gun fired.

I shut my own eyes, tears falling down my cheeks as the sound echoed in the small room. I heard a cry of pain from Lestrade, and a thump, then nothing. I cried out, feeling sick at what I'd just done.

Monster. Psychopath. Insane.

The list was endless.

I didn't want to open my eyes, in fact, it took me at least a minute before I found the strength to do so. I pried them open, certain I would find blood stains on all the walls, and a gaping hole where his chest had been.

However, his chest was not red. I crawled next to him where he lay, unconscious, and gasped. The bullet had hit him, but only in the leg. He was alive. There was a cut on his head from where he'd hit it during his fall, but that seemed to be the only reason he was unconscious.

He. Was. Alive.

However, that was when what had just happened finally sunk in. It was too much for me, and I curled into a ball, rocking myself slowly as I tried to comprehend what I had just done. There was no question now that I was insane, and, therefore, a danger to the public, and more importantly, to my colleagues and friends. Friends such as Sherlock. If I had been so ready to hurt, and even kill Lestrade, what would I be inclined to do in Sherlock's presence? I didn't even want to think about it.

A small voice whispered in the back of my mind that I was too dangerous to be left alive. It told me that if I ran away, Sherlock would find me, and I might hurt, or even, kill him.

The thought actually made me retch, and I realised that there was only one thing I could do. I had planned for it weeks ago, but when things had seemed brighter I'd chosen to forget about it. Now, though, I couldn't put it off. To keep my friends safe, I would do it. I was ready.

Ready to die.

Gaaah, what did you think?! Surely, you think, it can't get any worse? Well, that is where you are wrong! It can only get worse, and I can guarantee it will. Happy stories are not my forte, if you haven't figured that out already. Now, the next chapter will explain everything you have been questioning throughout the story, and if you do have any questions you definitely want answered please post them in a review, and I will make sure to include an explanation! Anyway, reader beware, feels abound. Please review, it makes me happy. If you don't review, it makes me angry, and you won't like me when I'm angry. Don't forget that these characters are all under my influence...

By the way, what I described John as before, I didn't mean that was how I felt about him (I love John, he's my baby, and Martin is just so sassy it's unreal) so don't get the wrong idea! I'm pretty sure that's how he would describe himself, but I think we all know he is so much more than a sidekick. He's Sherlock's best and only real friend, and the most loyal person ever. That's one thing I think we can all agree on.

Oh, and in case you haven't yet realised, I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters. Although, I have been compared to Moffat by many. I have to say, I don't entirely disagree.

Sherdocwho told me she was going to get out her chocolate and stuffed animals. I think that is some good advice, especially for the next few chapters. Follow that advice.