I was supposed to die first

I wasn't supposed to be left without him

It's not supposed to be like this

My best friend John Watson is dead

~Sherlock Holmes


1. 1

John Watson was a good man, no, no, a great man

He spent years of service as a military doctor

Only to come back to help people even more

He left a lasting impact on everyone he came in contact with

~Greg Lestrade


John was a wonderful husband to me

A loving father to Reign

He loved through all imperfections

His love will never be forgotten

~Mary Watson


I grew up with John

We studied together

I knew this man would amount to great things

I'm heartily sorry to see him leave so soon

~Mike Stamford


I hadn't known John very well

But I knew him enough to tell he cared

And he did everything in his power to show it

Condolences to Mary and Reign

~Irene Adler


Dr John Watson was wise

He knew more than he let on

He wasn't a big part of my life

But he did leave a mark on me

John will be missed greatly

~Mycroft Holmes


My brothers memory will live on

Through his loving wife

His beautiful daughter

And his amazing friends

Thank you all for protecting my little brother

~Harriet Watson


John was pretty funny

And even if he didn't like you

He at least acted like it

Thanks for acting buddy

~Philip Anderson


I've never met a man like John

He wasn't ordinary

He was, the ideal friend

And we are all lucky to have known him

~Sally Donavon


It's hard to accept that he's gone

John was just so lively

Such a caring, kind person

His loss is devastating on everyone

I think I speak for us all when I say "we love him"

~Molly Hooper


John was like a son to me

I worried about him

I can't believe he's not coming back

None of us will be the same without him

~Martha Hudson


John was a great man

A great doctor

A great soldier

A great friend

~General James Sholto


I was supposed to die first

I wasn't supposed to be left without him

It's not supposed to be like this

My best friend John Watson is dead

~Sherlock Holmes


It was a soldiers funeral. The casket was made of deep mahogany and draped with the British flag. The casket bearers carried it through the rain, from the hearse to the rectangular hole dug six feet into the ground. The stone at the head of the grave was black marble with the words John Watson, M.D 1974-2015 engraved into the slab.

Johns friends, family, and colleagues stood under a thin black tarp as the preacher said his parting words. One by one they walked by, placing a flower over the flag and saying their final goodbyes, tears streaming down each and every face. Mary held their young daughter over the casket as she hugged the flag tight, longing for her daddy.

The casket was lowered into the ground as dirt began to cover it, burying Johns body but not his memory nor his spirit. Tears continued to be shed as the funeral ended with a twenty-one gun solute to the former military doctor.

The crowd thinned out gradually, until simply Sherlock was left at the freshly filled grave. He placed this hand in the stone, similar to the way he had watched John speak to him when he faked his death. Sherlock swallowed his pain and spoke slowly. "John-John, I'm sorry I couldn't save you-I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry John." He sank to his knees onto the patted dirt and let his face sink into his hands. "I failed you."

Sherlock had known John was sick, but he didn't know it was life threatening, nobody had known. It started with a simple cold, but it didn't end, got progressively worse day by day, only a few days before his passing however his symptoms subsided, giving hope to them all. But it stuck back hard, killing him almost instantly, while Sherlock was off struggling on a case. John had died surrounded by those who loved him, but Sherlock hadn't been their. John last words would be "Sherlock" muttered in his dying breath.

There was a slight tap on Sherlocks shoulder as a young toddler reached out to him. He took Reign from Mary as she knelt beside him. "I know it hurts Sherlock" she rested her head on his shoulder.

Sherlock hugged Reign, she was barley sixteen months old, a girl who had grown up by her fathers example. Sherlocks goddaughter. She looked at him, with the same deep brown eyes as her father had. "Unkey Sheryuck?" She asked him, her voice soft and sweet.

"Yes Rey?" Sherlock collected himself as Mary cried on his shoulder.

"Where da-da?"

Sherlocks eyes watered again and his voice shook. "Da-da went bye-bye Rey, da-da went to heaven."

"When I go?"

"When you are older" Sherlock struggled for words, he usually had an easy time speaking to children but now he chocked on every word he spoke. "Da-da is safe there, he's watching over you Rey, he's watching over your ma-ma"

"Even you unkey Sheryuck?"

"Even me." He could no longer control his tears as he let them flow onto his face.

Thunder struck the air as the rain fell harder. Mary picked up Reign. "Let's go home baby." She turned to Sherlock. "Need a ride?" He shook his head and struggled to get to his feet. "Stay safe Sherlock." She stretched up to kiss his forehead as they embraced in a hug. Without words Mary and Reign ran to the last remaining taxi.

Sherlock remained at the grave for a minute before beginning on his long walk home. As he walked he past familiar locations he was bombarded with memories of Johns voice.

Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way

That's fantastic!

Stop it! We can't giggle at a crime scene.

The memories flooded in from their first encounter, Sherlock continued to walk in the rain, tears filling his eyes.

You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.

He missed John greatly. Their time spent together had been the best of Sherlocks life.

Yeah, of course you are. Course. You're my best friend

Some made him laugh.

I always hear "punch me in the face" when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext.

Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?

Others made him cry harder.

SHUT UP!! And stay shut up because this is not funny. Not this time.

But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this

Sherlock fell to his knees outside of 221b. He had lost all motivation to continue into the flat. He let the rain engulf him. People passed him, looking down at the man assuming he was drunk or had been thrown out by his partner. Sherlock didn't move, he simply laid in the rain and cried, letting his sorrow overwhelm him.

Without John Sherlock was only half the man he had been. John had shaped him into a better person, and together they made a perfect team. The team was now broken and so was Sherlock.

His heart raced in pain as he gripped his chest, a burning rage filled through him. "Fuck!" He screamed. "Fuck you!" He looked into the rain and shouted at the sky. "Fuck you for taking him from me!" He shouted to a god he didn't believe in. "I loved him!" He began to pound the sidewalk with his fist. Shouting and swearing, his vision obstructed by tears, he hit the pavement until his hand were scraped and bloody. He rolled to his side and curled into a ball, watching the rain fall onto the street as the sun set.

Darkness fell and Sherlock still lay, awake and motionless, letting the rain wash away all his pain and regret. He half expected John to walk up to him and pull him up, take him into 221B and complain about how he had been out getting milk, or start talking about his family. Sherlock longed for his only true friend to come back.

He rolled onto his stomach and did something he had never done before. He began to pray. He didn't believe in god, but he felt guilty for the raging before. He spoke softly through his lips. "Take care of him" he begged. "Even as an angel he might get hurt" Sherlock prayed for guidance as well, for help getting on with his life, a life he now believed was over.

"I'm insane" he spoke as the rain fell onto his face. "John, I'm sorry I wasn't there. I misplaced my priorities." He paused and swallowed hard. "Give me a sign John, give me a sign you forgive me" He waited for a moment in silence as the rain subsided. "Thank you" he weeped.

The London air was chilly and Sherlocks drench clothes didn't help. Despite the cold he remained, occasionally talking to himself, hoping John would hear his vigorous apologies. Sherlock tried convincing himself this was simply a dream, a horrible nightmare, but no matter how hard he tried he could not wake up.

John was dead. Sherlock didn't want to accept it but it was true. He had died from a sickness, he died asking for him, he died thinking about him, he died without him. John had been with Sherlock through all his problems, his troubles, his every struggle, but Sherlock was too self centered to be with John in his dying moments.

Mary told Sherlock that John had died happy, but Sherlock could tell she was lying. The corners of her mouth had turned down and her posture shifted slightly to the left. Sherlock knew John had been miserable, waiting as long as possible to let go, waiting for him to arrive. He took the guilt hard, blaming himself for everything. For not being there, for believing he had been getting better, he even blamed himself for his death, something he had no control over.

Sherlock pulled at his hair and screamed as loud as he could. Letting out his hatred of himself. If anyone deserved to be dead it would be him and not John. Sherlock had done far worse things in his life than John had even dreamed about doing. Screaming louder Sherlock hit the pavement again, his hand ripping open and bleeding onto the pavement. He wrapped his scarf over the open gash and lay crying, not from the pain of his hand, but rather from the pain of losing his best friend.

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