Dear Journal,

I can't believe I'm actually using you even though the idea of writing things down is stupid. I mean, just because it works for Darien doesn't mean it works for me. Everybody copes with tragedy in their own ways.

It was nice talking to Darien, especially in the time I'm in. In a sense, she understands the grief and the place I'm coming from. It was a refreshing change to talk to her instead of Amanda for once. I feel we got closer.

I'm writing in you now, because I gave in. And actually, despite my hand cramping up from writing so much, it's actually kind of relieving.

Things have been a wild ride ever since The Fall. To think, it's been a little over a month already...

I still picture it as clear as the world around me when I don't want to, which is all the time. I know it's unhealthy for me to hang around London, but I can't leave John, not yet. I still have one thing left to do, only...I can't find the right time to do it.

Ever since Sherlock told me that he'd found my father, I went back and forth into whether or not I believed him. To this day, the battle continues. But compared to before, hope is triumphing for once. I'm beginning to want the theory to be true. I would write down the name, but in case the said person finds this, they won't know it's them if they go snooping around.

On the nightmare front, things aren't going so well. I have them at least twice a week. It could be worse, so I'm glad it's only twice and not more. When I'm awake in the dark, I swear I see figures. I know my eyes play tricks on me, and it doesn't help that I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since I have no idea when. The most recent "sighting" was when I'd woken myself up, not from a bad dream, but simply because I couldn't get comfortable. I'd woken up to see a shadow.

The only good thing about the shadow was that it hadn't been Moriarty.

Speaking of the vile spider, he appears more in my dreams than as a hallucination. No matter what form he takes, I'm still not fond of him being in my life, or my thoughts.

I've given up on wishing for things that will never happen, such as bringing back people from the dead, or turning back time to save them. You don't get a second chance at life, it doesn't work that way.

I haven't eaten; I don't get hungry a lot anymore. I suppose The Fall has changed my appetite.

I worry about John. It's like watching over a sullen, rebel teenager. I make sure he leaves to go to work, or at least get out of the house. I know his therapy sessions aren't helping him, I don't see improvement. If there is any such change, it's probably making him worse instead of better. Out of the two of us, I seem to be the more stable one. I guess that's not saying much considering I see two men who committed suicide as hallucinations and dreams.

I'm lucky John hasn't gone behind my back and ordered medication for me and started slipping it in my food and drinks. For all I know, he could be plotting that right now. He seems more quiet than usual...

I stopped writing; John suddenly on my mind. I poked my head up from the couch I called my bed. Really, couches were second beds to me.

I looked to the small hall in the apartment. My brows came together. Usually, I heard John scuffling around, at least. Way concerned like always, I closed the journal and sat it on the other side of the couch. In a slight panic, I fast-walked to the hall, where I saw John's door mostly closed—it was open just a crack.

I bit my tongue, quietly going down the hall. I'd been worried about John doing something extreme like harming himself or...or killing himself. I'd seen way too many suicides; I didn't need to be the witness of another. Another might just send me to a mental institution.

I peeked into the one bathroom the apartment had. The door was wide open, and John wasn't present. I looked back to his bedroom door. That's where he had to be, I was sure.

The carpet floor muffled my bare feet. In the distance, rain drops pelted the windows. I sighed. Bad weather was all too familiar and all too annoying. It wouldn't kill for London to have one day full of sunshine, blue skies, and sheet-white clouds.

I froze in my tracks when I heard shaky breathing and sniffling coming from inside the room. My heart plummeted. I proceeded to gently pry the door open. It didn't make a sound, keeping me silent as a ghost.

The first thing I saw was John's back, his entire shaking figure. I nudged the door away from me more so I could slip through. His room was very plain. It eerily reminded me of Sherlock's room.

John didn't realize I was behind him, and even if he did, he didn't acknowledge me. I took two steps when a creak gave me away. I cringed. Damn floors.

John jumped as though he'd seen a ghost; he had a gun pointed right at me. My eyes bugged. What was he doing with a gun? A better question: When did he have that with him?

"Easy, it's only me," I said in the calmest tone despite my heart flying in my ribcage.

"I-I thought you'd gone out." He lowered the gun to his side.

"No. I-I was writing." I didn't relax, I wouldn't until I knew that weapon was out of his hands and hidden. "You wanted me out of the house." I looked warily at the gun. "John, put it down."

"Why?" His tone escalated into anger. "Why should I?"

This was going in a bad direction very fast. "Because this isn't you." I took a step towards him.

I gasped as he lifted the gun up. He didn't point it at me but at his temple. My heart was cracking. I wished there had been some sort of class in school to prepare myself with situations like this.

"Don't make me do it, Rachel." I could see a scary determination in John's eyes.

"I won't." I stood stock-still. "John, I know this is a hard time for you, it is for me too—"

"Like you would know what I'm going through!"

Keep calm; don't let the situation get the better of you. It's already gotten a hold of him. "Listen, I know this isn't the best time for you, but—you can't do this."

"Why shouldn't I? What is there left for me?" His figure trembled again.

This is like doing surgery, or diffusing a bomb. More like disarming the bomb. If I did anything wrong, John would surely pull the trigger.

"You can't be willing to throw your life away, not when you have so many things you could be doing!" I said gently. "You could be out there finding your next girlfriend."

John scoffed. "You know my luck with women."

"No, I don't." But judging by that statement, you must not have the best. I blew out a breath. "You could be out there living life, helping people! You do have a job, right? At a clinic? Didn't you say something about that?"

John didn't say a word. If he did, he would most likely shout at me.

Please don't end badly when I say this. "I hate to say it, John, but—but he wouldn't want you to do this."

John's eyes bugged as though I had just cussed him out. It nearly killed me to play the Sherlock card on him, but I had no other choice.

"How dare you use him against me?" John roared. I cringed at his sharp tone. "You don't know a damn thing about him!"

"I know he was an ass and very intelligent, and that he cared about you despite not showing a hell of a lot of emotion." I nearly lost control of my temper; I somehow managed to keep it in check. "You and him were like brothers, weren't you? If he was in your place and you were in mine, would you want him to go through with it?"

John stared at me, confliction in his eyes. I knew I had him thinking, had him distracted. I took my chance and ambled closer, extremely careful, like he was a baby deer. If you made any sudden movement, they'd take off.

In John's case, he'd pull the trigger.

Just as I was about ready to snatch the weapon from his hand, John refocused. I jumped back.

"Please, just listen to me." My voice was breaking just as much as my heart was.

"Why?"

"Because I'm your daughter for Christ's sake!"

I covered my mouth the moment I realized what I had just said. Oh shit. Oh God. Oh no. I hadn't meant for that to come bursting out of me.

The impact of what I'd shouted stunned John, stunned him so badly to where he actually dropped the gun. It mutely hit the floor. Desperate, I lunged for it. I held it limply in my hand, watching him as he watched me.

"What is wrong with you, Rachel?" he demanded. "Hand me it. Now." He had a hand outstretched.

I panted heavily. "You're not getting this back."

"Be careful with it, the safety isn't on."

"I know enough about a gun, John. I've handled one once, remember?" I said this coldly.

"What would make you say such a thing?" he sputtered.

I swallowed, quivering. John looked at me expectantly, fury in his eyes. I'd landed myself in some hot water. There was only one way to get myself out of this pit. John might not like what I had to say, but I guess now was as good a time as ever.

I opened and closed my mouth several times, trying to figure out how to word it best. "Sherlock...he—he told me."

I could tell I had shot John in the heart by saying his best friend's name. "No. You're lying."

"I'm not." I needed to calm him down, not spike his temper. The last thing we needed was a wrestling match over the gun. "I wish I had a video or a voice recording to prove it to you, but unfortunately, the only thing I can give you is my word." I paused briefly. "He told me...you were my dad."

"You don't actually believe it, do you?"

"Well..." I gave a small shrug.

John groaned. "You believe a lie, Rachel. I've never had a daughter!" He kept his tone level. "I've never been married. I'm sorry to break it to you, truly, I am. You're only hanging onto something that isn't real."

"But what if it is?" I pleaded. "Not even a small part of you wants to believe it?"

John snorted. "He told you something so you'd be happy. He knew you were so desperate that you'd believe anything."

"That's what I thought at first, but I thought he did it to distract me." I wrung my hands. I wasn't going to let John break my belief in us being related. True, I had no way to prove that we were. All I had was Sherlock's word for it, but that wasn't hard evidence.

"We're not discussing this anymore." John started for me, but I backed up.

"You're not getting this back," I said steely. I felt heat run through my body.

Fiercely, I turned on my heel and slunk out of the bedroom. I ducked into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it. I set the gun down on the toilet seat cover, glaring at it with malevolence. I'd have to throw the weapon away, or hide it somewhere John could never find it. Maybe I can flush it...No; it's too big to go down. Getting rid of this thing was going to be hard.

I went back to the door, pressing my forehead against it. I let sobs rattle my body. I tried to calm myself through breathing, but my emotions got a hold over me first.

Though the crisis had been adverted, my mind couldn't help but linger on what could have been had things gone in the opposite direction.

This had to be it. My breaking point, the very thing that would send me over the edge. This was probably the push I needed to start looking up flights back to America.

I couldn't live like this any longer, with John, in London. I couldn't worry about whether or not he was going to attempt to kill himself every day. I couldn't deal with seeing Moriarty and Sherlock. I wasn't healthy in London.

I didn't belong here.

**A rather...intense chapter for the two of them, eh?

So, while I can't remember offhand if John ever did try after Sherlock's death in canon, part of me thought he would try to because it would become too much for him.

Props to Rachel for coaxing him...though blurting out the theory, in theory, was not the best way to do it.**