Wherever You Go, I'll Always Follow

[Eva]

Dear Sherlock,

My therapist once told me that I should write a blog about everything that happened to me because it would help me to recover from the time that I spent in Afghanistan. My response to her was simple in the fact that I told her nothing ever happened to me. Honestly though, it was the truth. Nothing of any real consequence had ever happened to me. My upbringing wasn't anything special, years spent pouring over books with no social life. I was alone. Obviously you know that I had Harry but you also know how that turned out, don't you? Hell, you knew that the first day we met in the lab at St. Bart's. That's because you're a genius, Sherlock. You always have been and don't you ever let anyone tell you otherwise, understand? I mean it. Never.

I, on the other hand, couldn't be more of the opposite. Unlike you who have always had a special purpose in this world, my life held no real meaning and I served no real purpose. At least, that was the truth until I met you. You changed me in ways I didn't even know were possible Sherlock. The war took away everything from me and you were the cure to my loneliness. It was only after I found you that I truly began to heal. You were my lifeline Sherlock and now that you're gone I'm lost again; far worse than ever before. I owed you everything Sherlock and yet never got the chance to tell you. There was so much I wanted to tell you, so much that I needed to say to you but I never managed to find the strength to speak my thoughts aloud.

Looking back on it now, I wished to God I had because then you would have known. You'd have known how much you meant to me and maybe we wouldn't be where we are now. You wouldn't be dead and everything would still be fine. I didn't though, and the past is unchangeable. You are gone and nothing will ever be okay again. That's why I'm writing this. You said once that people leave notes behind. This is my note Sherlock. I remember you saying once that you weren't a hero - that heroes don't exist. Before meeting you I would have agreed in an instant but you are the exception. Sherlock, you are a hero. Moriarty was real and nothing you or anyone else could say would change my mind. I believed in you then and I always will. Until I take my least breath, I'll believe you. Goodbye Sherlock.

-John

There, he'd done it. It had taken him several days to finally reach a decision to leave some kind of note behind but he'd never known what he would say or who he would leave it for. Surprisingly though, the answer had been staring him in the face the whole time. At this point, it didn't matter to John that he knew Sherlock would never be able to read what he'd written. That wasn't the point really. All that mattered was that, before he left this world himself, he managed to get out everything that he'd been feeling over the past six months. He needed someone else, anyone else, to know the truth and hopefully they would understand. He'd managed for this long but John had always been a man of reason and he saw no point in further delaying what was clearly inevitable. Of course, most people wouldn't say that someone about to commit suicide was in their right mind but those were simply semantics as far as he was concerned.

Scanning the words he'd typed only a minute or so earlier to make sure there were no mistakes, John took in a deep breath before moving the mouse down to click the button on the screen labeled 'Post'. There was no going back now and, surprisingly, he felt more at peace than he had since before watching his best friend jump off the top of a building and die. Opening the drawer of his desk, he reached in and withdrew a small bottle of pills he'd gotten hold of for this very moment. With the knowledge he possessed as a certified doctor, it hadn't been difficult for him to figure out what medicine would allow him to pass from this world and what dose of the said medicine would be lethal considering his weight and body mass. The one he'd finally selected was a sleeping medicine that would send him off to state of unconsciousness before finally silencing his heart forever. It was simple, oh so simple, and he was beyond ready.

Rising from his chair, he grabbed his cane and slowly limped over to the kitchen where he pulled a glass down from the cabinet and filled it to the brim with water. Uncapping the bottle of pills, he poured them into his palm and looked down at the five small blue pills with a sorrow in his eyes so profound that anyone who'd seen him at that moment would have been able to know his pain with a single glance. His resolve firm, he opened his mouth and tossed the pills inside before grabbing the glass and washing them down with a few gulps of water. Fully aware that it wouldn't take long for them to kick in, he leaned on his cane once again before limping over to take a seat in the chair that had always been Sherlock. No one had sat in it since he'd jumped exactly six months earlier but John felt that it was fitting and so dropped into it as his limbs started becoming heavy.

The medicine was taking effect and John knew from experience with the drug that it wouldn't be long now until he was unconscious and then gone. Unable to keep the idea of sleep at bay anymore as his mind was turning to mush, not more than a couple minutes had passed since first ingesting the pills that his eyelids began to droop as sleep quickly began sounding better and better to him. Through the haze of his thoughts John thought that he heard the sound of feet rushing up the stairs outside his flat and it was because of this that his eyes barely opened."Sherlock?" he murmured sluggishly, though he knew such a thing was impossible. That thought was enough to make him succumb to the comforting darkness that was creeping up around him and his final spoken words slipped out as nothing more than a whisper. "I love you."

ATTIRE: Click!
WORD COUNT: 1,115 words
NOTES: Why do we do this to ourselves? *sobs*
LYRICS: Without You - My Darkest Days
CREDIT: SAM !? of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you.

[klada]

Sherlock had been watching John carefully, to make sure the man was safe from any danger. He had Mycroft watching him, and Sherlock had even come back to London to ensure that John was okay, six months after he had jumped, and it so happened that one of Sherlock's leads was in the area. Sherlock was taking care of two birds with one stone, so to speak.

Sherlock had read into the scenario, read every step ahead. He was eight steps ahead of everyone else in the game, but sometimes he still talked to John, even though John was still back in their flat. But he had never expected John to make a blog post addressed to him.

The post broke what little heart that Sherlock did have. Sherlock had never realized that he had hurt John this much, and that was not what his intentions had been when he had jumped. He was trying to save John, and he was almost done too, ready to go home, as soon as he could find Moran and shoot the man in the head himself. But he had never thought that John would be unstable enough to do this to himself, to try and follow him to the grave, the grave that did not exist. There was an empty coffin in the tomb with his name on it.

Sherlock had tried so hard to do the heroic thing for once and it was only ruining everything.

Sherlock's mind ran at lightening fast speed, as he ran out of the house, (no coat, just his shoes) cell phone in his hand. The first call he had made to was Mycroft, and Mycroft obliged to help in the only way he could, clearing traffic for his little brother, as well as sending a government car that could take to the hospital if need be. At this rate it would only take Sherlock a mere five minutes to get back to John. The adrenaline made the world feel fuzzy and surreal, as he made a phone call to John's cell, and even sent him a text.

"I'm not dead, John."

No answer.

John was a doctor, Sherlock figured he would take some sort of pill. He had seen too many violent deaths to want that for himself. But that put him into even more danger, because it meant that John would die faster. Sherlock had done all of this for John (Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson included) he could not just let him die, but this seemed an impossible feat to try and pull off, even for Sherlock Holmes.

If John died, Sherlock would not have anyone to come back to, and then was what the point? He needed John. John was the complete opposite of Sherlock, and that was why they fit so well together. Sherlock was apathetic, John full of emotion to the point where it physically damaged him. Tall and short, blonde and raven haired. But Sherlock needed his doctor, his army soldier, his connection to the real world, and John was trying to follow him to a place that he had not even gone.

Sherlock flew from the jet black car, and sprinted into the flat, up the stairs, unlocking the door of 221b with a certain amount of fear. He could hear John's voice, the sound of his name and three words that Sherlock had never thought he would hear from the mouth of someone that was not his parents.

Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. He hadn't seen the man for six months, and he looked the same as he remembered. And now he looked at peace, unconscious on Sherlock's chair, blonde hair speckled with a little more gray than Sherlock recalled seeing him with six months ago.
That moment pained him more than anything ever had. Love was a concept that Sherlock had never really understood completely, but at the moment, he thought he did. He did not see the need to answer John, the man was already unconscious, but Sherlock loved him too and he would have died in place of the army doctor.

Sherlock was at John's side in an instant, calling his name over and over, resting two fingers against his friend's wrist, searching for a pulse. He could feel it, a dull throbbing against his fingers and he could see the breath in John's chest slowing down already. Sleeping pills.

"John, wake up," Sherlock practically begged, gently slapping John's face, although he knew it was futile.

No response.

Sherlock pulled John's limp body from the chair, and with the aid of the government goons,(sherlock had not even noticed them come in) both Sherlock and John ended up in the back seat, John's body cradled over Sherlock's in the leather seats. He refused to let anyone else touch him.

Although the car ride certainly was not private, Sherlock talked to John the whole ride to the hospital, even though he was not expecting an answer. He kept one careful hand monitoring John's pulse the entire time, and the other stroking his friend's face, just trying to keep him alive for as long as he could.

"Don't you dare die on me, don't you dare."

Sherlock continued to brush the soft whips of John's hair, and a tear made its out of his eye and down his raised cheekbones.

"I think I love you too."

It was when they got to the hospital that the two were separated, John, getting his stomach pumped, and Sherlock standing outside of the room for a good two hours until he was allowed in. He spent most of that time talking to Harriet Watson on the phone, explaining the situation to her, telling her that her big brother was going to be okay. She spent most of the time calling him an arrogant arse and insulting him. But he was sadly, okay with that.

When he was finally allowed in the room, Sherlock sat down in the chair next to John's bed and pulled it forward so that he could hold John's hand. The contact was small, but it made him feel a little better about the entire thing. He could feel John's heart beat, steadier now, underneath his finger tips.

"I promise that I will never leave you alone again," He whispered, under the impression that John would not hear him.