AN: first Sherlock fic. Prompts are always welcome (hint, hint) R&R please!
"John. John? John!"
"I'm sorry. Just remember, Sherlock, you're bloody brilliant. You're the best thing to have ever happened to me. Thank you. Take care of yourself."
Sherlock went numb. Moriarty had found out how to well and truely destroy him; kill John.
The worst thing? He was going to have a first row seat. Not only that but John called and gave him his will.
John stepped off the building and fell as Sherlock ran torwards him. Before he could see John hit the ground, a biker slamed into him.
He scrambled back to his feet, shouting "JOHN! JOHN!"
He rushed to John. People tried to push him away but he dove between them and knelt before his only friend.
John's blood trickled down his face to pool around him like a halo. In Sherelock's eyes he looked like a fallen angel. In that moment he was. He was Sherlock's fallen angel.
Three years later
Sherlock lie in John's bed curled around John's pillow. It no longer carried John's scent but it still reminded him of his war doctor.
John's death had been worse than death for Sherlock.
That's when Sherlock decided.
He left the flat for the first time since John's passing. He walked with determiniation to the gun store. Mycroft had already confiscated his revolver. He bought the first gun he grabbed, walked home and bolted to door shut. He prepared his gun exactly how John had showed him. Ready, he lined up his shot and closed his eyes.
"I'm coming, John. I'm so sorry. I couldn't do it without you."
Sherlock took a deep breath before "WHAM!" He hit the floor and the gun flew from his hand.
He was pinned down by something, or more accurately someone. A very pissed someone.
"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" The person holding him down hissed.
The voice, no... it couldn't... could it?
"J-jj-ohnn? John?" He croaked, his voice cracking in pain and disuse.
"What, Sherlock? Explain to me what you were just about to do, because I'm dying to know," John grumbled, shoving off of Sherlock's back and standing up. He quickly grabbed up Sherlock's gun, disarmed it, tossed it as far from Sherlock as he could get it, and turned to face him.
Or he would have had the detective not grasped him from behind. John twisted in Sherlock's arms to see him quietly sobbing into his shirt.
John's heart broke.
"Sherlock, what is it?" John peeled Sherlock off himself and looked at him from an arms length. Sherlock was alarmingly skinny, his eyes had gastly shadows beneth them and his face is contorted with an array of emotions John has never seen on his face before.
"I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry. I just couldn't do it. I tried! I really did! But I couldn't do it. I'm sorry..."
John watched in horror as his only friend crumpled like a dead flower. What the hell had happened to him?
"Sherlock? What happened? Talk to me," john said containing his panic. War had taught him that histeria only served to further complicate thing.
Sherlock remained quietly sobbing on the floor. He cried himself to sleep before he answered John's question.
Two hours later
Sherlock awoke curled up in John's bed to voices.
"Mycroft what the hell happened while I was gone?! I walk in and Sherlock is trying to commit suicide! Why didn't you tell me?!"