John didn't attend Sherlock's funeral, but the golden boy would visit the grave every so often. Even after that one night with that boy whose name he couldn't remember. Even after he made out with that girl, Sarah...or was it Mary?

He made the pain disappear by drinking. Sometimes it was vodka, most of the time it was only beer. John thought that since sex didn't work, alcohol would.

Alcohol didn't.

John was sifting through some of Sherlock's old things four months after the accident.

That's when he found the syringes. And the baggies filled with substances John knew were venomous.

He plunged that needle into his forearm anyway, and oh Christ, that felt good. John could handle this; the pain was finally, finally gone.

One night John almost took a dose large enough to kill him. Almost. But then Sherlock begged him not to.

"I love you, John Watson, you wonderful golden boy." John could feel Sherlock's fingertips tracing up his arm, and this, this, was what took the pain away.

Sherlock Holmes, the man made out of stars, was now apart of the constellations. John was still the golden boy, but thanks to Sherlock Holmes, he finally felt like he mattered.