Okay, I feel I've got to say something before you read the chapter: this is not the end, okay? There are a couple chapters left, and this story will have a happy Johnlock ending. Just, please keep that in mind while reading this monster of a chapter. :)

___________________________________________________________

The first thing John had done when he left Sherlock was head to the nearest bookstore to purchase a copy of Jane Eyre. He took it everywhere with him. He read it during his downtime at work, he read it when enjoying the few lie ins he was able to have, and he read it in the evening as he sat alone at his dinner table, wishing that a certain consulting detective was sitting across from him, and knowing that would most likely never happen. Sherlock had made it painfully clear that he wanted nothing to do with John by not answering his phone or answering the door when he went to see him for the past month. The last time he'd visited Baker Street his landlady had said she hadn't seen him in over a week. John didn't see him at St. Bart's, where he used to see Sherlock all the time. He still didn't know why Sherlock spent so much time in that hospital, and probably would never know now. Sherlock was out of his life, and as much as it hurt, John knew he would just have to accept it. It was his own fault after all, for letting his guard down and taking Sherlock to bed when he knew he was still with Mary, and possibly breaking Sherlock's heart in the process. John hadn't realized it then, but when he'd seen the look in Sherlock's eyes that day, he'd somehow managed to break his own heart as well.

Truth be told he had considered several times ending it with Mary, because the guilt had become unbearable, and because he wasn't so sure he really picked her over Sherlock. If Sherlock hadn't kicked John out of his flat on Baker Street that day, who knows what would have happened. John knew for certain that if Mary hadn't been in the picture things would be very different. He would no doubt be with Sherlock, he knew that now. He had come to accept the fact that he did in fact have very strong feelings for Sherlock, possibly stronger than what he felt for Mary, but it had been too late. It simply hadn't been their time, and now their time would probably never come. Still, John stayed with Mary, and every time he felt bad about Sherlock he took Mary on a date. If he couldn't have Sherlock in his life, he would stick to the next best thing. John felt disgusted with himself, and his dignity was at an all time low, but he pressed on, putting on a charade of contentment everywhere he went.

John read Jane Eyre slowly, somehow thinking that as long as he had the book unfinished, he wasn't finished with Sherlock. Still, he wanted desperately to know what it was that Sherlock had meant when he said he was burning down Thornfield, even though he'd had a bit of an idea by now. One night, on what John would have called a 'danger night' if he had those sort of things, he sat down on his sofa with his book and decided he was going to read it to the end. He didn't get to the end.

As soon as he got to the part where Thornfield burns down he sprang from his seat and put on his coat. His heart was pounding and beads of sweat formed on his brow as he sprinted down the street. Baker Street wasn't too far away and he didn't want to spend time tracking down a cab to only be stuck in traffic. People gave him strange looks as he pushed past them, but all John could think about was that damn book.

Sherlock referred to himself as Bertha Rochester, the crazy wife of Edward Rochester, who burns down their home, then leaps to her death from the top of the flaming building. Though John was still incredibly confused, he knew now that what Sherlock had told him was certainly not good. Nothing involving fire and a suicide could be good.

When John reached 221B Baker Street he was out of breath, but he wasted no time in pounding on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it for him.

"Hello John, what-"

"Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Not for weeks." John didn't stick around to hear what else she had to say before storming up the stairs and knocking on Sherlock's door. Nothing. He opened the door and took a look around the eerily quiet flat, and noticed that seemingly nothing had changed since the last time he'd been there. The only thing missing was Sherlock. Where was he? John's heart was pounding furiously against his rib cage as he went back downstairs and rudely dismissed Mrs. Hudson before leaving. He would have to come back and apologize later; Right now he needed to get to Scotland Yard.

Luckily he was recognized by several of the workers, from all the times he'd come in with Sherlock, and was able to make it to Lestrade's office without any difficulty. He knocked hard on the door and waited for it to open. When it did John pushed past Lestrade and began pacing back and forth in the office.

"John? What are you doing here?"

"I think something's happened to Sherlock."

"What?"

John took a moment to decide on how much he should tell the man, and ultimately deciding that he could get through this conversation without any mention of his and Sherlock's... involvement with each other. He told Lestrade that the last time he and Sherlock spoke they'd had an argument, and that Sherlock had referenced Jane Eyre.

"Isn't that the book with the orphan girl who falls in love with the guy who has that crazy wife?" John nodded his head, wondering how everyone seemed to know about this book but him. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"At the end of the book, the crazy wife burns down Thornfield, Mr. Rochester's home, and kills herself by jumping to her death. Sherlock referred to himself as Mrs. Rochester." Almost instantly Lestrade straightened up and his eyes went hard.

"No, you don't think-"

"There's been no fire. His flat is as it always has been, except he isn't there. I haven't seen him in over a month, and his landlady hasn't seen him either. Please tell me he's been secretly working on cases for you or something."

"I'm afraid not." Lestrade sighed heavily and ran his hands over his face. "I think I'm going to get a search party rounded up. We'll comb through all of England to find him if we have to."

"That's really nice that you're so concerned." Lestrade just shrugged and pulled out his phone.

"Yeah, well, I've known him for years and he's been a great help since he started working on cases. I'd hate for something to have happened to him or worse, for him to have done something stupid to himself." John nodded his head curtly and turned to leave, pausing when he reached the door.

"Erm, is there some way I could possibly help? If there's anything you need..."

"I'm not sure yet. I've got your number. How about I get back to you after making a few calls." John nodded his head and sighed. "Don't worry John, I'm sure he's just gone on some sort of extended holiday or something. He's the type to do that, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't know," John said, shrugging. Lestrade gave him a look of disbelief as he began dialing a number on his phone. John avoided eye contact and waved to Lestrade before turning and leaving his office. He went straight home and spent the next half hour pacing, until his phone rang. It had to be Lestrade. John practically dove onto his couch to retrieve the device.

"Hello?"

"John, it's Greg."

"Greg Lestrade? What have you found out? Has anyone seen him? Is-"

"I'm afraid all I can say is we've got police forces all over England looking for Sherlock Holmes... and even a few in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. If he's anywhere in the United Kingdom, we'll find him."

"I sure hope so. How can I help?" John could hear him sigh on the other end of the line.

"There's not really much to do," he said. "All I can ask is that you stay calm during all this, and hope for the best. If I have any questions I think you could answer or if there's any sort of development I'll be sure to call you." John hung up and tossed his phone to the floor, not caring that it disappeared beneath his sofa. With stiff legs he made his way to his kitchen and got a bottle of wine. It was going to be a long night.

___________________________________________________________

Two weeks passed without any sign of Sherlock, or any progression his missing person's case. By now it seemed that all of England knew about the vanished detective, and despite all the volunteer searching being done, no one was able to locate them. John had remained admirably stoic throughout the whole ordeal, excluding a couple incidents about a week after the search had begun. The first time he'd been at Mary's, pretending to watch the movie she'd bought for them, when he noticed a violin in the background, and he'd lost it. They agreed to never talk about it. The last thing John wanted to think about was how he'd clung to her like a lost child, soaking the front of her shirt in hot tears. That was something he could go the rest of his life without thinking about. Several days later when he'd found a shirt Sherlock had left behind, buried deep in the back of his closet, it was all he could think about as he curled himself into a fetal position, shutting his eyes tightly and trying to shut out the world. It was the first time John had ever had a panic attack, and he'd had to face it alone.

When Lestrade came knocking on John's door one evening, John was a complete wreck. He hadn't been to work in a week, claiming to be ill, when he really just didn't want to leave home. He hadn't eaten in days, and the only time he could get any rest was when he tired himself out by crying, which didn't happen often. He knew he must have looked terrible, and the look on Lestrade's face when John opened the door was just proof of it. Still, he tried his best to smile as he motioned for him to come inside.

John closed the door, then turned to face Lestrade, and felt all the heat drain from his face when he saw the man's solemn expression.

"We uh, we found him." John tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, already feeling the tears welling up.

"And?" Lestrade broke eye contact and bit his lip, obviously distressed. John began shaking his head. "No..."

"There was a body found at the bottom of a cliff near Sussex. Male, about 6 feet tall, with curly dark hair. Now, the face was a bit..." He sighed. and shook his head.  "Poor chap must have fallen on his face, onto those rocks..." John brought his hands up to cover his mouth, still shaking his head. Lestrade gave him a look of pity and his shoulders sagged. "Anyway, despite the unrecognizability of the face, his brother was able to identify the body this morning. I'm sorry John, I know you two were close."  John just nodded his head. "The uh, funeral's next week. They've asked that you speak." John nodded his head again, staring down at the floor, not bothering to ask who 'they' were. Lestrade sighed and placed a hand on John's shoulder. "I'm really sorry." He let himself out, and the moment the door clicked shut John's knees gave out and he dropped to the floor.

So that was it, he thought. He'd driven Sherlock to suicide, apparently. His best friend, the man he'd somehow fallen for, had in turn fallen for him, now in two completely different ways, and now John would never get the chance to apologize, to tell Sherlock that if he only asked once more he would have been his. John could feel tears streaming down his cheeks, but he knew this wasn't a panic attack on the horizon. This was grief, a manifestation of his sorrow, of his guilt, of the pain of having someone so close to you just suddenly ripped away. If this was anything close to how Sherlock had felt, John understood why he had thrown himself off of that cliff.

___________________________________________________________

The day of Sherlock's funeral John sat in the front row, beside Sherlock's brother Mycroft, and gave the eulogy at the end of the service. He kept it brief, and had managed to hold back the tears until he sat back down. He didn't bother trying to hold back the tears when the coffin was lowered into the ground. Afterwards, when everyone was heading back to their cars, John was approached by Mycroft.

"That was a very touching eulogy you gave." John didn't know how to answer, so he just shrugged. "Believe me John, he's in a better place now." John bit his lip and nodded, refusing to cry in front of Sherlock's brother. "I know you loved him." Instantly John's eyes snapped up to meet Mycrof't's cold ones.

"Well, um, I mean, yeah. We were... He was my best friend." Mycroft leaned in closer so that his lips were right beside John's ear.

"That's not what I meant." He'd then turned and walked away, leaving behind a gaping and grieving John.

___________________________________________________________

Less than a month after the funeral John and Mary moved in together. Mary had suggested it one day and John, not really paying attention, had agreed. A week later he found himself curled up with Mary on her couch, both of them resting after just having moved all the contents of his previous flat to either Mary's house or his storage unit. His eyes were on the screen but his mind was elsewhere, as was per usual nearly every night. He'd tried so hard to move on, but he couldn't get over Sherlock. He was still very much in pain, but Mary had been fantastic support for him, and for that he decided that he would never leave her, no matter how much he wanted to. Mary was good for him, and she seemed to still enjoy his company, so it just made sense.

Mary noticed the distant look in John's eyes, and gave him a sympathetic pat on the knee.

"You're thinking about him aren't you?" John nodded his head. "Do you want to talk?" John thought for a moment, then looked down into Mary's shining green eyes and decided that yes, he would be perfectly fine with waking up to see them every morning. He sighed.

"I just... I miss him."

"I know you do."

"He was my best friend."

"I know, John."

"I'd always wondered who my best man would be at my wedding, you know. And for so long I thought it'd be him."

"Oh, well..." John turned to face Mary, pulling away from her enough to clearly see all of her face. She looked concerned, but anxious and possibly even excited. John tried his best to smile at her.

"And you know, even though he won't be there... hopefully I'll still have you up at the altar with me." Mary's eyes grew slightly in size and her jaw dropped.

"John, is this some sort of proposal?" John licked his lip and shrugged, nodding his head.

"Um, yeah. It is." John reached into his pocket, pulling out the box he'd been concealing all day, and tears sprang to Mary's eyes before she threw her arms around John's neck. He wrapped his arms around her and held her closely, trying his best to be happy at her enthusiastic reaction.

"Yes, John." She managed to choke out. "Oh, god, yes."