I had always known, in my heart of hearts, that it would all come down to this.

The day I moved in with the world's greatest and only consulting detective I knew, what with my…unfortunate ailment, that I would come to regret it. Bitterly. The catalyst of this realization and knowledge was the inexplicable attraction I felt to Sherlock. James had taken me to meet him upon learning of my desire for a flatmate that fateful day, and with dire warning about the man with which I was about to make an acquaintance . I must admit these forewarnings alone peaked my interest in this man shrouded in such mystery and am I ever so torn as to whether I regret my decision to accept James' offer and Sherlock's invitation. That dark mane of curls, the tall lithe figure, and damn if I didn't melt evry time fortune smiled upon me and the Fates allowed me the pleasure of gazing into those piercing, sharp~as~a~whip grey eyes~for lack of a better term, I was starstruck.

Life with Sherlock certainly started out with a bang. I trip over to the fridge to find a spot of something to eat and upon opening the fridge door I see staring back at me a head. An actual human head. I stared at it for a moment before nodding and shutting the door. "Things just got a whole lot more interesting in your life, Watson, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" I said under my breath. And never have I ever been so spot on in my predictions. Between chasing criminal goons down the streets of London, trying{and failing spectacularly} to keep Sherlock and Donovan away from each others' throats and the during aftermath of the whole Moriarty catastrophe, it's a wonder Sherlock and I ever got around to us. But one day everything between us just sort of...exploded.

It resulted in the sweetest, longest, most passionate session of lovemaking I've ever experienced in all my long years on this planet. and really any other tenant in the building must felt us shaking the foundation with our howls and screams.

Not to be vulgar. But I know your all thinking it.

I couldn't see through the haze of love I felt with Sherlock and when I lapsed back to thinking of my illness I was foolish enough to think I would be able to oppress my feelings, that my love for Sherlock would banish such thoughts.

Alas. I was ever so mistaken and my fuck~up cost the both o us dearly.

Even after two and a half tours in Afghanistan I could still be so bloody naive.

Those tours did change me, though. Just not in that fashion.

I was always considered a good kid. I usually never got into huge trouble at school, I listened to what my dear parents, bless their souls, told me to do, and I treated my Harry with the respect and care she deserved, at least before she had become a bitter, self~involved, miserable shrew. But I had harbored a secret that I kept uncannily well, and no one ever suspected it. I was the kind of child who would hold a magnifying glass in the sun over ants to watch them shrivel and die. I used to set the wings of a butterfly alight simply to watch it struggle to save itself by fluttering away as it burned to living ashes mid~flight. I suppose the fact that I knew this was not normal behavior, that this was not something people encouraged, that's why I was able to keep the secret so well.

When I had first enrolled in the army and was called to serve my Queen and country, I thought a bit of hero-ism and camaraderie ought to do me some good, perhaps help me with this demon, keep this affliction under management, and eventual lock and key. I knew this was a serious issue and not a matter that could be resolved overnight. I wasn't unrealistic about it. Except when it came to Sherlock. All bets were off when it came to that maddeningly, wonderfully brilliant man.

But oh, was I mistaken. My first battle was a bloodbath. The enemy sneaked up on us in the dead of night and it was a massacre. We ran for help but they had slaughtered the rest of our unit and we were completely on our own. I must admit that when I heard those first reports of gunfire my feelings of fear and desperation were rather overshadowed by that of exhilaration, and when I happened upon that soldier behind the bunker on his last knees, bleeding out onto the dust, begging for my help, I could only stare. And then I raised my gun and I fired.

Dare I say, the sight of the light leaving his eyes, his death throes, and the final gasping, shuddering breath he drew before departing from the land of the living, it was the most beautiful, sinfully delicious moment I've ever experienced in my long years on this earth. I was addicted. And like a junkie, I would go on searching for that high until the end of my days. But of course, I would never find it, but that didn't matter to the beast of my addiction. All it cared for was that ultimate high.

And when I followed Sherlock to the alleyway behind Scotland Yard, when I pulled out the revolver I 'hadn't' kept in my nightstand for particularly treacherous cases we would take, when I...

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I tried so bloody hard to fight this monster. But that's all it wants. Blood. This blood lust is insatiable, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I thought, maybe, what you and I had, could stop this, could keep the beast at bay. I was wrong, and I am so sorry." I raised my trembling hand and aimed the gun at Sherlock's heart. I felt it would be adding insult to injury shooting his brain, ruining part of what had drawn me to this doomed man like a moth to a dying star.

And I shot.

And as the man I loved bled out onto the midnight dark pavement, as each of his bodily functions slowed and ceased, as he gasped for breath, I wept. Wept for the soldier who had to die by the hand of his kinsmen, the harlot who was killed by my silver bladed dagger, the policeman who was murdered by the blow of the cinder block to his head, but most of all for the love of my life and what he had to suffer at the hands of his beloved.

And of course, as per Sherlock, that light, that bright, beautiful, bloody brilliant light that was his brilliance manifest, didn't go out from his eyes until until the absolute. Very. Final. Moment.

Along with it went every last thing I had ever thought of my self and this cruel, unjust, unyielding world we called Earth. And John Hamish Watson ceased to truly exist.