Sherlock opens the door to the flat, turns the knob and pushes it open with John's cane. He slams the door behind him, flops down into the couch, and twirls the cane in his hand, staring at it.
It didn't work. Why didn't it work? Mary said he would come for him. He was supposed to save John.
She was wrong.
She was supposed to know John better than everyone else, but clearly she overestimated his fondness for Sherlock. At one point he would have undoubtedly been there, punched Culverton in the face, checked Sherlock over and made sure he was okay. Not anymore.
Of course, how would Mary know? How would she know how she would die? How would she know it would be Sherlocks fault, that he would get too cocky and her life would be lost as a result? Maybe then she wouldn't have told him to do this. She would know John would want nothing to do with him.
It didn't matter anyways. Why was he wasting his time with this? John left. He said his goodbyes in his own way: non-confrontationally, showing how he felt with actions rather than words, avoiding Sherlock's reaction. It was such a John thing to do; he's pants at emotions.
Sherlock deserved this. He deserved to be left there. He killed John's wife. He ruined John's life. He deserved to die. But he couldn't do that to John. He couldn't die again. Even if he isn't a part of John's life anymore, he now knows the affect his death had on him and he couldn't risk that happening again. He was grateful for Lestrade (and even Mycroft, begrudgingly).
He rolls onto his side, closes his eyes and clenches the cane, John's cane, knuckles turning white. He sits like that, cane tucked under his chin, curled up, not breathing until his body forced him to, pushing out the air and tension in his body.
This was it. John is gone forever. He lost him. Everything he did to keep him was all for nothing.
The fall.
It was for nothing.
All the things he left unsaid, fearing if he let them slip John would want nothing to do with him, began to rise up and fill his body.
He becomes nauseous and light-headed. It's to breathe. He is drowning.
Sherlock realizes he needs to let it go.
He stands up and places the cane so it is leaning against John's chair. He plods towards the mantle where a pen lies, and snatches a piece of paper from an old tablet John used to take case notes on. Used to.
Sherlock knows he can't hold on to his feeling forever. He will ruminate and ruminate and ruminate over and over at incredible speeds, unable to leave behind the things he left unsaid. He knows because it happened before when he was away for 2 years and on the plane, however, that time he had cocaine to blur his mind.
Hopefully this time, now that his thoughts will become concrete, he will be able to free himself from the past, from the what-ifs, and be able to tolerate being on his own.
There was a drawback to his plan, however. John would know. Not that Sherlock cared, John made it clear he left him forever anyways, so him knowing Sherlock's true feelings would have no effect on Sherlock himself. It was John he was worried about.
He has hurt John so many times in so many unforgivable ways, he wasn't sure if he could do it to John again.
But he had to. He knows he had to. It was the only way. The only way to move on and start again.
Thinking about 'starting again' makes a knot twist in Sherlock's stomach. He doesn't want to move on, not really. He wants to go back. Back before the fall. He wants to fix everything to prevent himself from ever leaving Baker Street, from ever leaving John. His John.
Stop, stop, stop!
Sherlock digs his fingers into his hair and pulled, feeling the follicles tearing out of his skin.
Enough.
He has to keep pushing forward.
He grabs the pen and paper and moved to the kitchen counter and writes.