John Watson’s alarm clock was going off. The dirty blonde man with a war-ridden face groaned and turned towards the nagging buzz of his digital alarm clock. He had to be at work in two and a half hours. His soft blue eyes were out of focus and he brought a hand up to rub at them, causing brilliant flashes of reds, yellows, and white to bombard his vision. He reached out and slammed his palm onto the clock, silencing its annoying screech. He sat up and pushed both of his large hands up his slightly wrinkled face, chasing away any remnants of his dream, his nightmare. John sat on the bed for a good ten minutes, trying to mentally and emotionally prepare himself for the day ahead. It was an ordinary day, nothing special was to happen. John, however, had begun to find he had to push himself harder and harder to get through the days.

John’s depression encased him. She wrapped herself tightly around John’s neck; he had to fight to stay alive. She whispered despair into John’s ears, penetrating and corrupting his mind. Depression had John wrapped around her little pinky finger. John was her toy and she loved playing with his broken pieces. She especially loved the bits dealing with the war. She loved to litter his dreams with his past. Her brother, Insomnia, loved to accompany her on the nights of the war dreams.

Her favourite piece, though, was Sherlock. To reach this fragment, Depression had to dig deep into the recess of John’s soul.

John had loved Sherlock more than anyone else; he refused to admit it, however. He loved Sherlock in all of his awkwardness and lack of social skills. He loved waking up to find Sherlock pouring over a case, deducing it. John loved making coffee for the curly haired raven. He had begun to accept the feelings he had for Sherlock. Then, on an ordinary day such as this one, Sherlock died. John had watched him die.

It had been chilly out that day; the clouds obscured the sun, keeping heat out of London. John could remember climbing out of the cab and looking up to find Sherlock on the hospital roof. He wanted to run to his flat-mate; he wanted to know what was going on. John had been sick of being put in the dark on the case with Moriarty. The pain in Sherlock’s voice over the phone made him stay.

“This is my note, John. Isn’t that what people do: leave notes?” Sherlock’s deep voice was thick with tears. He reached down to John.

John had to swallow before he could reply; his arm lifted up towards the man he loved. “What note? A note for what,” he paused. “For what, Sherlock?” His voice became panicked.

“Goodbye, John.” Then the line went dead.

John Watson always remembered the scene in slow-motion. Sherlock seemed to collapse under the weight of gravity and he began to free-fall, his arms flailing about, to the ground. When John reached his friend, his best friend, he pushed his way through the crowd to try and find a pulse. His doctor’s instincts drove him to find even a flutter. As futile as it was, he searched for one until he was pulled away and the emergency responders wheeled Sherlock into the hospital.

Don’t be dead! Don’t be dead! Don’t be-

Dead.

Depression clutched her bony hands onto John’s shoulders, pushing down and adding weight. John hunched and shuddered. “Dead, John, that’s what you should be,” she purred into his ear. “Join Sherlock, just as you should have long ago.”

John shook and stood. His short stature was slumped as he held back tears. He had to get ready for work. Work would be the only thing on his mind today. He shuffled over to his closet to grab clean clothes; his eyes fluttered to the window. He stopped dead in his tracks. There, across the street, stood a man in a long, black over coat. The collar was pulled up around his neck to block out the cold. His raven curls fell into his long, pale face. John’s heart began to beat rapidly. He rushed to the window, momentarily blinded by the sunlight, and threw it open. “SHERLOCK!”

The street was empty.

John backed from the window, breathing heavily and continued to get ready for work. His mind was reeling, he was going crazy. Finally. He was hallucinating; Sherlock was dead, dead as a doornail dead. He forced down cereal with the texture and taste of cardboard for breakfast and grabbed his heavy leather coat and house keys. It took John almost 10 minutes to flag down a cab. He slid into the dark car and slammed the door. “St. Bart’s Hospital, please.”

The cabbie nodded and they drove in silence. The cab smelt of stale cigarette smoke and cheap air fresheners. The leather seats had small tears in them. John looked out his window and again, he saw the man. He paled and made a noise. The cabbie looked back with concern on his face, “you gon’ be sick, sir? I can’t have you bein’ sick in my cab, sir.” John shook his head, telling the cabbie he’d be fine.

The ride wasn’t long and before John knew it, the black vehicle had pulled up in front of the dirty white building. It’s intricate design and large windows mocked John as the memories of Sherlock jumping crashed around his skull. He released a shuddery breath and forced himself out of the cab. In front of the door’s a dark haired man stood waiting. Just waiting. John squeezed his watering blue eyes shut and hurried past the man.

“John.“ A deep, melodic voice came from the hospital lobby. John spun to find the mortician, Molly standing there. “John, are you alright?” The voice changed back to her sweet and soft whisper.

“Fine,” John walked away before she could ask any questions and hurried to his office. He slumped in his chair and waited for his first patient. Occasionally, when the door remained open, the blonde could have sworn he saw Sherlock Holmes sitting in the lobby. However, every double take proved him wrong. By the time his break came around, John’s nerves were shot.

Depression continued to cling to his back; she tried to pull him down but he fought against her. “John, Sherlock is waiting for you. He waits on the roof. Go, John, join him.” John’s body trembled against the amount of will it took to remain sitting. He looked out his window and saw grey. Rain pelted the window and made a sheet of water cascade down the glass.

John’s stomach rumbled with the need for food, but he knew better than to move from his seat. He’d eat once he was safely in his house, not here. Not in this building. He simply could not move from his seat or he would lose it; he should have quit this job after Sherlock’s death. John just couldn’t. He felt like this was his last link to Sherlock. John hung his head and tried to not think about the past. He didn’t want to think about all the memories he had shared with Sherlock nor did he want to think about the flat and Mrs. Hudson. Poor Mrs. Hudson; John had just up and left her after she lost the only person she could call family. He wondered how she was doing. How she was holding up after Sher-

“Stop this now, John. Stop thinking about him,” John chastised himself. His cheeks turned red in colour and he leaned back in his chair. Again, his stomach protested. John stood up and began to reorganize his desk even though it was completely uncluttered. He needed to do something to get his mind off of that man in the dark coat with the dark hair and the grey eyes, eyes as grey as the sky outside. He looked out his window again and saw Sherlock’s doppelganger standing in the rain.

John went rigid and stared at him for as long as he could. Cars drove past but John would not falter. He needed to be sure he wasn’t crazy. He approached the window and pushed it open, trying not to blink as to chase the ghost of his friend away. The rain stung John’s flesh and caused goose bumps to decorate his arms. The raven man stepped into the street and made his way to the window. “John,” his deep voice was soft and inviting. Warm.

“Doctor Watson, we have an emergency out in the lobby!” A nurse’s voice caused John to turn around and when he looked back at the soggy outside, Sherlock’s phantom was gone. John sighed and shut the window.

When John’s work day was gone, he could no longer fight it. He had to go to the roof; he had to stand on the ledge. John had to know what went through Sherlock’s mind in his last few moments. As he made his way up the empty stairwell, Depression returned. She whispered into his ear; she suggested ideas into his brain. John’s mind quickly became filled with chaos, filled with despair. He reached the door to the roof and stepped out into the freezing rain.

“John, why are you up here?”

The retired military doctor spun to find Sherlock standing a short bit away. The dark-curled man stepped towards John who backed away. “You. Sherlock. But. You’re dead. I. Why?”

Every step Sherlock took towards John only made the panicking man back away further. Depression clung to John like a second skin, clung to him just as his soaked shirt did. She hissed into his ear. “Do it, John. Let him know how much he’s hurt you; show him how damaged you are.”

John turned his back to the phantom that haunted him. His steps were shaky as he made his way to the ledge of St. Bart’s hospital. He stood there, arms extended. He looked down at the dark concrete and relived the moments of Sherlock’s death. He took a shuddery breath, “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he leaped towards the blonde man. His fingers snagged the very edge of John’s heavy tan coat but the pull of gravity was too strong and it was wrenched from his black leather clad fingertips. John didn’t scream on his way down; he didn’t cry out. The only sound came from Sherlock.

“JOHN!” He collapsed next to the edge and cringed at the thud of John’s body on the pavement bellow. He curled up and pulled his knees to his chest. Sobs racked his body as he hyperventilated and tried to pull himself together. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. Sherlock stood and screamed at the sky. No words came from him, only anger and hatred. He had tried for years now to tell John he wasn’t dead; to tell John it was only a hoax to stop Moriarty’s assassins.

Sherlock’s mind reeled. Was this the pain John had endured for three long years? Was this the horror that John had lived with since that day so long ago? Sherlock, stood, knees shaking, and looked over the ledge. People had begun to surround John’s body and Sherlock bite his lip.

John Watson’s alarm clock was going off. The dirty blonde man with a war-ridden face groaned and turned towards the nagging buzz of his digital alarm clock. He had to be at work in two and a half hours. His soft blue eyes were out of focus and he brought a hand up to rub at them, causing brilliant flashes of reds, yellows, and white to bombard his vision. He reached out and slammed his palm onto the clock, silencing its annoying screech. He sat up and pushed both large hands up his slightly wrinkled face, chasing away any remnants of his dream.

He smiled at the sound of the violin from the downstairs portion of the flat at 221b Baker Street. Sherlock must have stayed up all night. John yawned and stretched. He would make some coffee for Sherlock and then they would discuss cases and Sherlock would complain about Mycroft. It was their daily routine. He knew how to get Sherlock to stop worrying about a case and rest some. Perhaps they’d have a nice dinner out, not as dates or anything, but as friends. Maybe the world’s only consulting detective would take a day off of being such an introvert and actually do something fun for once.

Yeah, John thought to himself, that’d be nice. A break for once. Dinner for two and maybe a film. He climbed out of the bed and walked down to the living room where Sherlock stood in his robe. His back was to John and the violin rested on his broad shoulder, the music that came out of the stringed instrument was phenomenal. John smiled and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. Today would be a good day.

“John, is that you?” Sherlock’s voice interrupted the violin’s sweet cries. “Could you make me some coffee? I’ve been up all night trying to find the missing piece to this case.”

John smiled again and told Sherlock Holmes that he was already on it. Today would be a really great day.