My first Sherlock FanFic :). Sadly I don't own Sherlock or any of the rights to BBC's fantastic shows. This is a one-shot. Post Reichenbach feels.

John Watson never felt so alone.

When he got back from the war it was different. It changed him, he saw people die every day. Eventually he got used to losing friends. Eventually he stopped making them. He became emotionally detached, and would only talk to his colleagues during work hours. He made no effort to grow close to people. He lived for his work. After a while, being lonely wasn't so bad. The grief of having one of his army buddies die did hurt though, but then again he wasn't as close to them as he was Sherlock.

John moved back to the flat he was living in before he met Sherlock. He had Mrs. Hudson bring his necessities. He couldn't go back to 221B. When he used a cab, he made sure the cabbie went a route that didn't pass his old flat. Their old flat.

John felt like he was just going through the motions. He would get up, dress, and have an unsatisfying meal of oats for breakfast. Then he would go to work; see his patients. 12'o clock would roll by and he would eat a ham sandwich for lunch. At 1 he would see more patients, and by 6 he was on his way home. He would fish his keys out of his pocket, touching the set to 221B that he kept there too.

He didn't know why he kept them, Mrs. Hudson never asked about them because he knew she didn't want to say anything and upset him. They were sort of a reminder of all the times he would swing open the door to find Sherlock in his mind palace on the couch thinking with nicotine patches all over his arms.

John would sit down on the edge of his bed and torture himself by thinking about him. How excited he would be when there was a new case. How his face would light up at the mention of a triple murder. John could see the cogs turning in Sherlock's head when he was presented with a tough case. Sherlock didn't find the hard cases hard though, it was more like a difficult level to a video game and Sherlock was the teenage arcade champion who could beat it in seconds flat.

By 7:30 John would get hungry and would put together something with the odds and ends in his pantry and fridge. He would eat his meal in front of his crappy and cheap telly. He would contemplate his own suicide, and that no one would really miss him. He still had his gun. He could buy some rope. Maybe, he could jump off St. Bart's like Sherlock. Then he would think of Mrs. Hudson, and how she reacted to Sherlock's death. He didn't think she could stand to lose her last Baker Street Boy.

At 10 he was in bed, staring at the celling, and thinking about Sherlock yet again. He tried to sleep, he really did, but when he closed his eyes he saw Sherlock falling and falling until he heard the tell-tale crunch that he was dead. He was totally sleep deprived, and only got about an hour of sleep before he woke up and started the process all over again.

Every Tuesday he saw his therapist and every Saturday Mrs. Hudson came by with a casserole or pie and stopped for a chat.

John stopped talking to his friends and acquaintances. He told Sarah to piss off and she was so offended because "she was only worried about her friend". Lestrade stopped calling with cases because he told him to piss off too. John didn't want their pity. He saw it in their eyes when they looked at him. He only talked to Mrs. Hudson because he felt that she understood some of his pain. She knew about Sherlock's late night violin playing, his mind palace, and his craziness.

The limp was back. Now that he lived a boring life he had to rely on a cane again. He should have done something, said something to stop him from jumping. It was too late though.

He only lives for Mrs. Hudson and the little voice in the back of his head that says, "Keep going Sherlock is still alive somehow!" John didn't doubt Sherlock for a second. He knew that Sherlock was a proper genius. Even if Moriarty was a fake, it would take a brilliant mind to pull it all off. Sherlock would have had to plan everything out: the bombs, the kidnapped children, and the whole suicide scene. How would he explain Moriarty's death?

Then again, he couldn't argue with the autopsy report. Molly herself did it as a final goodbye to Sherlock. He was 100% dead.

Tonight's the night that John Watson will make up his mind.

He takes a taxi to St. Bart's, and uses the elevator because his leg hurts too much. He limps up the single flight of stairs up to the roof, taking his time because in an hour his life will be over. No need to rush things now. The door to the roof creaks open, and John finds himself admiring the stars. It's a bit chilly, so he hugs his coat around himself. He hobbles over to the ledge, sits, and looks down.

A few people are still out this late, stumbling out of bars. He watches one man get kicked out "Poor bloke," John sympathizes for the man. He wonders if he was trying to lessen his problems by getting lost in a world of drunken ignorance. Maybe he should have tried that, but John had made up his mind.

John pulls up a recording of Sherlock playing one of his original songs on his phone. Sherlock never noticed, but John secretly taped his little violin concerts.

Possibly, he did notice and never say anything?

Probably.

John thinks back to his therapy session last week. He was supposed to go again today, but called in and said he wasn't up to it. His therapist asked him what he wanted to say to Sherlock but didn't. John did not answer that question because he couldn't. He didn't want to break down and start crying in front of his therapist. He doesn't mind now though, he is completely and utterly alone. Tears fall freely down his face, and John makes no move to wipe them off. He silently cries, making no noise but sniffing every now and then. He's ready to answer the question. He knows it in his heart to be true, and he wishes that he acted upon it when Sherlock was still alive. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes," John whispers to no one. He puts his hands in his pockets and feels his phone and the note for Mrs. Hudson.

Dear Mrs. Hudson,

I do not feel that I need to explain myself. But I think that you deserve a decent explanation. I think you know that I was in love with Sherlock. If you didn't then, well, I'm telling you now. The man who I loved is dead and gone. He will never come back to the living. All I can do now is join him. Sherlock had no religion and I do not think he believed in heaven or hell, but I do. Where ever he is now I will find him. Whether he is in heaven, hell, Nirvana, or simply floating in space I WILL unite with him.

Please forgive me,

John H. Watson

P.S I doubt you will want any of my possessions, but help yourself to anything.

John gets up and uses his cane to boost himself up to stand on the ledge.

He takes a deep breath.

Lets it go.

Repeats.

He feels his pocket buzz. "That's odd… No one sends me texts", he thinks. He takes his phone out and has a look at the screen:

I'm alive. Come to the flat. –SH

Then another:

Come at once if convenient. –SH

Quickly followed by:

If inconvenient come anyway. –SH

THE END

TaDa! Whatda think? R&R pleeeease!