Pretend it's Cluedo

The Worst Day **Part One**

Sherlock's parents house was not what either Molly or Lestrade had anticipated. It was more homely than they had assumed, it did not seem like the house one would assume two high-functioning individuals would come from. John knew the house was similar to the Holmes parents, warm and inviting, but many secrets lay within. The Holmes parents were in effect extroverted versions of their children, and thus were often more liked. John liked them, Mary had liked- no. John needed to stop thinking about her and what might have been, his psychiatrist said it would not help him recover if he thought of it too often.

John had a new psychiatrist. His last had gone on maternity leave just a few weeks after she left, and John couldn't look at her afterwards. He saw in her what he might have had, a child, a partner, a family. The replacement was a man - at John's request - a fifty something year old man, an ex-GP, retrained late in life, divorced twice, no thrice - the third recent due to his wife's affair, no children, two dogs, likely two Labradors, though due to his sexuality, Sherlock did add they could be labradoodles instead. John had let Sherlock meet him twice, though "let" may be the wrong word, he had met Sherlock once when the psychiatrist told John he would like to meet his flat mate to get the fuller picture (Sherlock had actually been told to - in effect - be on suicide watch) and secondly on what Sherlock would later reminisce as the worst day of his life.

**

It had been almost four months since she left when it happened. Sherlock had been out, he had a case but John was ill, he appeared to have the flu, he was in bed and Mrs Hudson had promised Sherlock she would check on him and get him food and tea - as he was barely capable of doing that for himself since her disappearance.

The case had been elementary to the amazing Sherlock Holmes, a simple case of lovers rage with an appearance of pecuniary advantage, and the added bonus of a clever murder. It took Sherlock less than a minute to work it out, but the majority of the day explaining to Scotland Yard. When Sherlock returned home, he noted the absence of Mrs Hudson, but the calendar told him this was due to it being 6pm and that she would be at the bridge club dinner for another 2 hours. The calendar also told Sherlock John should be at his psychiatrist. He didn't bother calling to see if John was still in bed, as he knew John was a soldier and would get out of bed if he had somewhere to be.

It surprised Sherlock, when he was interrupted from his experiments by the phone. It was not a number he recognised. It was a London number. A memorable number, likely brought and expensive. The only two expensive places Sherlock was in touch with were his drug dealer, and John's psychiatrist, as Mycroft had been paying for a Harley street clinic after a small "run-in" John had had with the last clinic over the pregnancy and a heated exchange of words.

"Hello, I presume this is Dr. Willis, was it?"
"Mr Holmes, I need you to find John."
"Isn't he with you?" The doctor sounded worried, what was going on?
"No, he didn't turn up, he left a voicemail, but I'm worried about him..."
"Oh crap." Why had he not come back sooner. He knew John was delicate, he knew Mrs Hudson was going out, he knew John was ill - but this wasn't the flu, Sherlock knew that now. "Is he your last appointment?" Sherlock's mind went from emotional to problem solving in a moment.
"Yes."
"Have you got a date tonight?"
"Er... No."
"Good. I'll be at your clinic in 5 minutes." Sherlock had checked the flat whilst on the phone. He had stopped in John's room.

John's bed was neatly made, his pajamas folded on his bedside table and under a full mug of tea, their was a note, a note addressed to Sherlock with four words underneath:

"This is my note."

Sherlocks world was collapsing.

But Sherlock kept moving through the pain - he knew if he was to dwell on it, his mind would fog and he wouldn't be able to function. Sherlock ran, he was only a few streets from Harley street, he considered getting a taxi, but traffic was bad, he could sprint faster. It took him seven minutes to reach the clinic he was looking for, John's psychiatrist was waiting outside, he looked tense and worried. He was muttering something about not being able to get another job if John had... If John had done something.
"I know where he is, and I know what he's going to do. You are not going to loose your job, as long as you do what I say and help me help him." The psychiatrist hadn't seen Sherlock turn up. He startled, not only due to Sherlock's arrival but also at the apparent change in Sherlock's character, he was still in control but more vulnerable, but he still knew what to do. Sherlock hailed a cab and the started on the twenty minute can ride to Barts, the place John's note suggested as his destination. The doctor noticed John's note in Sherlock's hand at this point, and asked about it. The conversation that ensued was not particularly important, and it would be lost to Sherlock's memory as many parts of that day were, but the outcome was memorable, Sherlock opened the letter - his letter:

Sherlock,

I don't know what to say, I don't know what to think, I don't know what to do. It's all so confusing, so strange, so painful. I couldn't go and see him. I couldn't talk about this to you, so he had no chance. I don't know why I can't talk, I just can't explain how I feel; I can't rationalise it; I can't compartmentalise it; I can't cope with it.

I know when you open it you'll already be on your way to find me, I hope you reach me in time. I know I am not myself, and I know it will only get worse. I can still see it's the wrong decision now, but in a few minutes it will be different, I will be different, and it is all I will be able to think about, I will be consumed by it, I will have to do it just to get away from it.

It's all so confusing. I can barely get my words out. I don't know why I feel like this- scrap that. It's a load of crap. Of course I do, and you do to. It's her. It's her lasting legacy. Her legacy will be me, or a lack there of. So please, if you are too late, Sherlock, it was her, and me that did this, but never you, you were brilliant, you did everything right: you were you.

I know the doctor told you to keep an eye on me for this. I know you did. I noticed all the knives had been made blunt...

Sherlock paused reading. John had noticed that. John had noticed, but he had assumed wrong, it had not been done by him, he had done a lot but not that. Mycroft.

...I saw there was no rope, I saw my gun had been sabotaged, I saw you checking on me on the night. I saw it all...

Now that all had been Sherlock. Why hadn't he thought of the knives? Ah, yes, that.

...I saw you trying to save me, and I am thankful.

I am sorry I am doing this to you. I know how it feels I saw you die. Well I thought I did. I spent months unable to do anything, the only person I saw was Mrs Hudson. Then she... No I will not talk of her. I'm sorry that you'll understand how I felt, and I'm sorry I am not coming back. I'm sorry I have no miracles.

But Sherlock, you are my best friend, and I am lucky to have you, and to have found you. And I hope beyond all hope, you will find someone who means half as much to you as you do to me.

I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm sorry I haven't given you answers. I'm sorry I'm just going to leave you. I'm so sorry.

Goodbye Sherlock.

A/N: Geez, that was a long one. So here's another chapter. I doubt anyone's reading this, but if you are: thanks. And drop me a comment if you are and I'll check out your books etc. No promises when the next chapter will be, but hopefully soon. With that, WIW out.