In The Arms Of An Angel
John sat bare foot on the edge of his bed and gazed sadly out of the window. He looked up at the stars above, sparkling and scintillating as though someone had spilt glitter amongst the inky black of the night's sky. He was still waiting for his second chance. He prayed every day that Sherlock was still out there somewhere, that someday he would return, but he knew in his heart that that was never going to happen. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and he was never going to see his best friend again. He had to learn to let go, and to accept that he was never coming back.
Meanwhile somewhere on the other side of the world Sherlock Holmes looked up at the setting sun, setting the sky alight in a blaze of red and orange flame, and he thought about his friends back home. He was doing all of this for them - for Mrs Hudson, and for Lestrade, and for Mycroft and for Molly, but most of all he was doing this for his best friend John. He'd given up everything for them all. This was the only way he knew how to keep them safe.
He was all alone now, although he didn't so much mind, he's had been a life full of solitude and in the past he'd rather enjoyed being alone – but everything had changed now, he found, and he did miss John.
Sherlock hoped that he was alright.
John looked sadly out of the window and sighed. He hoped that wherever Sherlock Holmes was he was in the arms of an angel, and that he knew how loved he'd been, and how very very much he was now missed.