Time: Very recently post Sherlock's jump.

Pairing: None for this one!

Warnings: Major, major angst and character death.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the character of John Watson. However, the writing is 100% original.

"I know you're here."

His voice echoes around the empty flat.

John moves into the sitting room and perches on the couch. He waits, not knowing exactly what for.

But that's a lie, isn't it? A small voice in the back of his mind begins to pester him.

You know exactly what you're waiting for, John. You're waiting for him. But he's not coming back.

John closes his eyes, exhaling sharply. He'll refuse to listen to it. It isn't true after all. Sherlock can't be...

Dead? Hate to break it to you, but he is. You saw the body. You saw the blood. He isn't coming back.

As determined as he is not to let it bother him, John begins to shake. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to block out the voice resonating in his mind.

You thought you knew him. You thought, after all this time, that you had finally learned who he was.

John shakes his head violently. It isn't true. It can't be true.

Oh, but it is true. He said it himself. It was all a game, all a trick. He wasn't a genius. He wasn't a hero. You know what he was?

He's willing it to stop, but his mind won't shut up. The voice is flooding his brain, taking over his senses. It's all he can hear.

He was a liar. Nothing but a dirty, rotten liar. He lied to everyone. He lied to you.

"No." John's voice breaks, betraying his emotions. He was real, he was true, he was good. He helped people, saved people. That couldn't be a lie, none of it could be a lie.

There are tears now, and they won't stop, no matter how hard he tries. The voice continues to rant on, telling him that none of it was real, not one single thing. He doesn't want to believe it. He opens his eyes, only to have them fall on yesterday's paper. The headline glares at him: "Consulting detective admits to inventing crimes, commits suicide."

It's screaming at him. Consulting detective admits to inventing crimes. A fraud, that's what they all think he was. That's all John is now. Without him...

He was a liar. He invented Moriarty, did awful things, killed people. And what were you to him? Nothing. A tool, a pawn.

But what is John without him? Nothing, still nothing. Everything is nothing. As his head slowly comes to rest in his hands, something catches his eye.

It was Sherlock's, you know. All the more fitting. He only used it a few select times; to summon the police, or when he was bored. The apartment building isn't very tall, so this will have to do. If John can't go the same way he did, he'll go the same way Sherlock's worst enemy did. The best friend, the worst enemy and the fraud himself, all within three days. The papers will have a field day.

The metal of the barrel feels cold within his mouth.

He can't live in a world where everyone thinks Sherlock Holmes was a fake. He'll refuse to.

You'll refuse to believe the truth? Pathetic.

His hands shake at first, but then steady.

The lone gunshot echoes around the empty flat.

AN: Thanks you guys for reading! This is my first time writing for Sherlock, and this little ficlet gave me some acute headaches, so any and all reviews are appreciated. Seriously, reviews are the highlight of my day, please give me some! If you liked it, say why. If you didn't, still say why. Hope to see you soon!

~Peace, Love, and A Third Season of Sherlock soon,