Just small something I wrote in ten minutes.

I know most of you have read it from the papers already. "Fake detective jumps in his own death," it says. I know some of you are shocked of this new information. Sherlock Holmes, the most intelligent and arrogant person who you have ever met, a fake. Every case he solved, were planed and paid for, to make him look good, to gain your respect. Some of you may even feel mad, angry, betrayed. I know I do. I feel angry, but not because of him. I´m angry because of people like you, people who think like that. I´m angry that he was taken from us too early because of Jim Moriarty. Oh, he is real alright.
Let me tell you something. I´ve never before met a person like Sherlock, and never will. The cases we solved, they were not fake. I was with him in each and every one of them...well, as long as I knew Sherlock. He took me in as a flat mate even if he knew me but I didn´t know him. He trusted me, believe it or not, but I saw a side of Sherlock no one else saw, a side he kpet strickly to himelf. His death broke me. There was so much left unsaid, so much more to see, to hear and feel. He listened and saved an old military veteran like me. And I owe him so much. He was a brilliant man, and if you think otherwise, I wish not to hear it.
This is my last memo on my blog, my last words. You are missed, Sherlock. May angels take care of your soul.
JW

John sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly, re-reading his text one more time before pressing 'send' and closed his laptop. Leaning back on his…no, Sherlock's armchair he was currently occupying, he stared through the window emotionless.
"Write what you think, let it out. Yeah right." He muttered referring to his psychologist and pushed himself out of the chair, making a bee-line in the kitchen. Tea, kettle, water. He opened the fridge, eyes scanning though it. There was no milk. John couldn't help but smile a little to himself, his eyes automatically searching his phone. Swallowing through the painful lump in his throat he grabbed it from the table and taking a deep breath he opened one of the messages his inbox had knowing he was torturing himself.

John, we need more milk. –SH

John released a small chuckle, going through all the messages he had got. There were 43 of them, and he knew them all from his heart.
Come immediately if not convenient. –SH
If convenient, come anyway. -SH
Could be dangerous. –SH
Could be dangerous. Everything they did was dangerous. Breaking into apartments, chasing murderers in dark alleys, fighting at guys with knives and guns…Sherlock really had brought danger back into his life after the war.

Absentmindedly making the tea, John slumped back on the armchair, head buried in his hands and small sobs leaving between his lips. It had been weeks, 5 weeks to be exact and he still felt like it had happened only yesterday.
The call, the small shake in Sherlock's voice as he spoke, the plead to keep his eyes on him. To watch him spread his arms and fall from the rooftop. To watch him hit the ground and die, to check his pulse only to find none, seeing the brilliant eyes lose their life.
"I´m leaving a note. That´s what people do, leave a note, right?"
"Keep your eyes fixed on me, John. Can you do that for me?"
"Goodbye, John."

John gasped out breaking from the memories, clutching a hold of the chair, small choked of sounds escaping his throat as the eeys and the sound of body hitting the ground haunted him. It still hurt, hurt so much. His only friend who understood him, his only friend, his only-

The loud chirp of his phone startled him from the depressing thoughts and John breathed in deeply few times before answering the phone, trying to keep his voice even.
"Hello?"
"John, it´s been a while."
It took a while for him to realize who the caller was.
"Lestrade. Hello."

John could hear the soft chuckle from the other side of the phone and couldn´t help but smile a little himself. After the incident that happened, John had mostly kept to himself. Mycroft had tried to call him few times, but John did not answer those calls. He couldn´t. John knew that if Mycroft would have been serious, there would have been people to practically drag him out of the house, but there hadn´t been any of those and John was thankful about that.
"How are you feeling John?" Lestrade asked and now he could hear the sheer worry of his friend.
"Good. Fine. Going on." John replied fast, his mind going immediately on automatic.
"John."
John sighed, he should have known that he could not fool Lestrade easily.
"Really, Greg, I´m doing okay"
"I read your latest blogpost."
Shit. He wasn't supposed to read it just yet.
"And I wouldn´t call that okay. You should go out for a while. Why don´t you join me in the pub tonight?"
"Lestrade, I don´t think that´s a good-"
"Great, meet you there at eight."
And the call ended, leaving John to dumbly stare at the phone. Apparently Lestrade was not taking a 'no' for an answer.

John sat still for a moment, listening to the silence of the flat before he walked in his own room, leaving the teacup on the counter. Opening one of the drawers he had, John carefully pulled out an old box, moving to his bed and placing it on top of the sheets. Breathing in deeply, he opened the lid and closed his eyes before peeking inside it. It was always so overwhelming to see one of the most valuable possession what Sherlock had, the only thing that was left of him apart the experiments and head in the fridge.

With shaky hands, John took out the dark blue scar Sherlock always wore. Sherlock had never left without it, even when they had come to arrest him Sherlock had put the scarf around his neck calmly before leaving. He had stolen it from evidence when Lestrade had turned his back, and if he noticed it missing, he hadn´t said anything. Rubbing the material between his fingers, John brought the scarf on his face and inhaled deeply. He could still smell Sherlock on it, a soft scent of his aftershave and something that was pure Sherlock. The scar was smeared with small red dots that had smudged on the material. He had not dared to wash the piece of cloth in fear he´d lose the last evidence of Sherlock with the wash.

Clutching the scarf against his chest, John fell on his side on the bed and broke down in tears, finally crying his emotions and pain out, gasping for breath as it felt like someone was squeezing the life out of his heart. He wished he had died with Sherlock. Sherlock had died for him, but how could he continue living like this when from the first day Sherlock taught him to live his life again, and on the last day he took it with him?