"Sherlock-lock-lock-lock! SHERLOCK-LOCK-LOCK-LOCK!" John's screams echoed as he gazed into the chasm. Water rushed by but his ears heard nothing.

No. No, no, NO! They'd been hunting down Moriarty, by running away, so they wouldn't have to live the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders! But now Sherlock's … gone.

Wind rushed by him, rustling leaves and they seemed agree. Gone. John shuddered as he gripped the great overcoat left behind. Sherlock couldn't be gone because, well, the world couldn't survive without its consulting detective. He did so much and nobody, save himself, Lestrade, and Mycroft, knew what he'd done. The world already seemed duller.

His phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket. Blankly drawing it out he read the text, his heart jumped into his throat.


Jim has, kindly, given me a few minutes to write this. I knew the minute we rushed to leave that, for Jim to end, I'd end as well. Death or not, I would end. The puzzles that intrigue me would stop and therefore, I'd end as well. It's been a pleasure working with you; you're a real friend. I'm glad to realise this before I die. Don't feel my death is your fault; you couldn't have stopped it.



John curled in on himself and cried; he didn't want to say bye.