Falling. Endless falling.
The thick black coattails snapping behind him, almost as if smoke had traced his slow and fiery descent, like a king dethroned.
All John could feel was the numbness, which wasn't really a feeling at all, but more of a deepening pain; a void that couldn't be filled. The image of Sherlock falling was seared into his mind. It was a horrific image, an unimaginable loss. The war had taught John the harsh realities of the suddenness of life, but it hadn't prepared him for this. Nothing could have.
At first, Sherlock had been the erratic sociopath, with no definites and no reliability to depend on. John hated that. He was a product of the army, and despite the chaotic nature of the job, he relied on the established hierarchy and the unquestioning attitudes of his peers. The monotony had once been comforting.
With Sherlock, there was none of that. Only the never-ending guessing game, subtle clues and connections is seemed only he could differentiate. John was completely sure he had met a genius. Not the type he was used to meeting when he was presented with his purple heart; the uptight and prideful professors of long-dead practices still prattling away their lofty discoveries.
But Sherlock was different. After John had gotten past the cold, judging exterior and piercing gaze, he had realized how unhappy Sherlock truly was. He could see things so clearly while everyone else stumbled around, incompetent. And despite his clear sight, Sherlock was alone. His natural talent had created a rift between him and the others of the department, besides Anderson, who was always a pain in the ass.
John hadn't trusted Sherlock at first, but after saving his life from the crazed cabbie, John knew this sort of natural protectiveness didn't tag along with the usual acquaintance. His relationship with Sherlock was turning out to be much more complicated than he had previously thought. It wasn't a partnership, or even a casual working relationship. They were a team, and John came to realize he was probably the first and only true friend Sherlock had ever had, and that made his heart full.
The next few years had been a blur. The Blind Banker, the ever-growing threat of Moriarty, and a few girlfriends later, John realized that Sherlock was his best friend. A title, that in John's opinion, should only be given out a few times during a lifetime, for the most sincerest of friendships. John had come to trust him completely and was even picking up a few of Sherlock's quirks like the constant violin penetrating the floorboards of 221 Baker Street.
John's blog kept him busy, but he didn't know how comfortable he was with Sherlock's sudden rise to fame after he uncovered one of Moriarty's more notorious schemes. John wasn't sure how well Sherlock was handling it, either.
Then there was the woman. The woman. Irene Adler. John couldn't honestly describe his anger towards her without letting loose a string of words he hadn't used much since the army. The first thing he had felt was...jealousy? But that's what puzzled him. He wasn't attracted to Sherlock in that way, but his friend's fixation on her was a little unhealthy. John's anxiety was stifled, however, after the Scandal in Belgravia, Sherlock had seemingly returned to his normal self.
But all of that had changed with the Reichenback Falls painting. It had launched a maelstrom of press and media, stalking Sherlock and drawing even more attention to his incredible gift. But Sherlock remained his standoffish self, and as soon as Moriarty was set free, he was thrown to the wolves. Things began to happen so fast John couldn't keep track of the threats, cases, clues, and connections; he knew he was on the losing end of the battle.
But nothing had prepared him for Moriarty's final stand. His lunacy had driven him mad, and he was determined to drag Sherlock with him, his mortal enemy and sole equal. And so they danced with death, at the top of the world, twelve stories from earth. And John could only watch.
Sherlock's last phone call, his "note," had been the most heartbreaking of all. It ripped John's heart apart to hear such pain, and sadness, in his voice. It seemed as if his very soul had been broken and John had been the only one to comfort him in these last few moments.
But what he regretted most of all was that he hadn't been able to say the words he most wanted to say to Sherlock, after their unruly friendship of two years. He hadn't been able to tell him what their friendship had meant to John.
And now he was gone.