A/N: This is my first fanfic. I was watching the last episode of Sherlock and then I thought I should just go ahead and try my own, but I'm not sure if I should continue it or not. Let me know :)
Also, this is short only because it's a bit of a prologue, depending on whether or not I'm going to actually write more. Enjoy!
"Just one more miracle," John said just before he left, "Don't... don't be dead."
He couldn't take it any more. A plan formed in the doctor's mind as he thought of what he should do; first, the phone. The phone would have to go, because he found himself dialling his late best friend's number over and over again, just staring at it in its hand. So he had left the phone on the rooftop before jumping. John had to get rid of his own phone; he couldn't get rid of Sherlock's number... he couldn't. He had sat there and stared at the 'delete' button, but his hand had shaken and he just couldn't do it. As he thought of this, just before he walked away from the graveyard, he turned around, suddenly aware of eyes on him.
"Hello?" he called out, paranoid after spending so much time running from villains. "Who's there?"
Nothing. He shook his head, sighing at himself; he had to get over this! So many friends had died in the war, so why was it so hard to get over someone who didn't even have emotions like normal people? What was that? John spun around again and narrowed his eyes, trying to see against the howling wind. No one. There was no tall figure, no one running after anyone... his phone signalled that he had a text, and his heart beat faster. It couldn't be! It couldn't be! He could picture the "SH" at the end of it, but it wasn't there; it wasn't Sherlock. Why was he expecting him anyway? He was dead. Great: now he was pretending he was alive and about to call him! He'd be mad by the end of the week. Calming himself down, John read it: I'm sorry. Mycroft Holmes. A sudden anger rushed through him, and for the first time that day, he realised that his best friend's brother had been absent from the funeral. His own brother's funeral. He couldn't be that sorry. Besides, it was his fault. He had helped Moriarty, had even given away everything about Sherlock Holmes. That name was painful to even remember; John Watson started to walk away faster, trying not to cry.
Mrs Hudson was waiting for him by the church, speaking to someone John couldn't see; the person had a hat on tilted so that it shadowed his face. Even if he had seen him, he wouldn't have cared. He was too far away to even think about home, let alone any stranger speaking to his landlady. She spotted him and smiled, waving him over. Immediately, the figure said something, and then walked swiftly away. It would have been suspicious, had John actually thought about it. Painfully, he realised that Sherlock would have gone straight to Mrs Hudson and demand who it was. He weakly returned the smile and looked around, expecting the detective to be following the retreating figure slyly and analysing him, knowing his life story.
"Are you OK now?" she asked, and he nodded. "Now, where will you go? You said you needed time away."
He thought about it and sighed. "I don't know yet, Mrs Hudson. Probably just... away from here for a bit, just so that I can clear my head a bit. Thank you for being so understanding about this. It really helps."
"You take all the time you need," she said pityingly. "I know how it is to lose someone, and you were good friends, weren't you, you two? When you first came, I was glad; someone sane in the house at last!"
John forced a laugh and looked away, not answering. Then an idea occurred to him. "Actually... I'll stay..."
Mrs Hudson stared at him in disbelief. "Are you sure about that, John? There are so many memories."
"Yes," he said, smiling. "I couldn't leave my landlady all alone, could I-that would be cruel. I'll stay."
When he got back, he immediately looked around. He hadn't stayed because of Mrs Hudson at all. In truth, he was getting as desperate and suspicious as Sherlock had with Irene Adler's phone, trying to unlock the code. Mysteries started to surround him, and he started to actually think, to wonder about the death of his best friend. He wanted to know about the odd suicide, because he knew Sherlock Holmes was not a fake... so why would he lie before jumping? What had made him do it? He wanted John to hate him, quite obviously, but why? Everyone was unaware that John Watson was not an idiot and knew something was wrong. It was the first time he had really thought about it, but things were bugging him; Mycroft Holmes hadn't bothered to turn up at his own brother's funeral because something had happened to make him decide not to, the figure seemed to be getting away rather quickly and seemed ever so familiar, with a voice that was nagging at John's memories, the phone had not been found with Sherlock's body and still rang out, which meant someone still had it... what was going on? Suddenly very small things became bigger, more suspicious and bad... and he was going to find out what it was before he went entirely mad with his loss.