Chapter 1: Rain

"It just fits," Dr. John H. Watson thought grimly as he looked out of the window. The dark grey clouds hung low in the sky and swallowed all colours. It was raining. Nothing unusual in London this time of the year. But at the moment John preferred this weather more than sunshine, for the rain reflected his inner feelings perfectly. His therapist said he was going through a depressive phase caused by the trauma of losing his best friend. She had prescribed him drugs, but John had simply not taken them. He didn't want to feel better. He didn't want to forget his grief for Sherlock. He didn't want to forget Sherlock at all.

Sherlock had saved him. When John had returned from the war, he was broken. He didn't know how he should start over with his life. Then Sherlock had given him a new purpose. The loneliness that had crept into his life when he returned from Afghanistan had disappeared, when Sherlock let him into his life. He couldn't imagine a life without Sherlock and he didn't want to.
John slumped in his chair with a sigh. He looked at the empty one by the window where Sherlock usually played the violin. He slowly shook his head and held his hand to his forehead.

John closed his eyes and lost himself in his grief. In his mind, he was back at Sherlock's grave.

'One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock - for me. Don't be dead .. just for me. Just stop it. Stop this.'

John could feel his heart clenching and tears rising. Furious, he stood up and walked restlessly through the house. Sherlock was his best friend. He simply didn't understand. Why had he done this? Why had he told him such nonsense on the phone? That he had invented Moriarty and was a fraud. That made no sense.

It's a trick. It's just a magic trick.

John shook his head angrily. He could not believe it. What had happened on the roof? Lestrade had told him that they had found the body of Moriarty. The forensics revealed that he had killed himself. Why did Sherlock still had to jump? Even with Moriarty's death they still would have managed to prove his innocence. John knew Sherlock well enough to know how stubborn he was. Sherlock would never give up. That made no sense.

John opened the fridge - only to close it again. No severed heads, no blood or other unsavoury things were in it. John smiled as he thought of his daily fights with his best friend on this issue. Everything in this apartment reminded John of him. The ex-soldier let his head fall hard against the kitchen window. He didn't really watch the rainy streets, but was hanging on to his memories.

His first case with Sherlock. "A Study in Pink" as he called it in his blog. They pursued a cab in a mad chase through the streets of London. It was the moment when John forgot his cane at Angelo's. What his therapist hadn't managed to do, Sherlock accomplished in one day. John got his life back.

Mycroft had told him at some point that his discomfort went away because Sherlock had given him back the battlefield. John wasn't haunted by the war - he missed it. John knew that this was only partially true. In this first case, John had found out something else. He admired Sherlock. The Consultant Detective was a genius, a master of deduction. But he also had a weakness - a dark, self-destructive side. In this first case, John shot the man who wanted Sherlock to take the poison and thus saved his life. At that moment, John realised that he would protect Sherlock. This wonderful, brilliant man who was his best friend.

But in the end he didn't manage it. He hadn't been there in time to rescue Sherlock. John slowly slid down the wall on which he leaned against and gave his tears away at last.

On a flickering black and white video, you could see John Watson as he sat crouched on the floor. The video was displayed on a small laptop, standing in a dark room on a narrow table. A hand gently touched the screen at the point where John was shown in the video. Then the person walked to the phone that was next to the laptop. A text message was typed.

Molly, please look after him. SH