"John..." No answer came from his flatmate. At first, Sherlock was confused. Why didn't he answer?
No one is there, brother mine. Mycroft's voice was piercing in Sherlock's numbed mind. A bloom of pain spread out from the middle of his forehead and enveloped his brain in a hazy cloud of torture. He moaned and turned over on his couch. "JOHN…" he called into the darkness again.
He isn't there, Sherlock. He left you a long time ago. Moriarty's calm, almost whiney tone sent another wave of agony through Sherlock's skull. Why wouldn't John reply? Where is he?
Sitting up, Sherlock peered around the flat. It was dark and dull, no sign of anyone besides himself occupying it. A cold, blue light was seeping through a gap in the drapes on the window, casting Sherlock in a dreary glow. His hands shook as he reached for the drink on the table. Straight scotch, this time. He poured the amber liquid down his throat, wincing as the burn slid down his esophagus. Placing the now-empty glass back on the table, his hand brushed his needle.
Alone, Sherlock. You are completely alone. Molly's sweet voice was cruel, almost ridiculing and mocking. Sherlock rocked back gripping his pounding head. He closed his eyes and retreated into his mind.
It was white noise. Nothing was there. Empty hallways, each with the lights turning out, one by one. Sherlock ran. He ran down the blank corridors, screaming.
"JOHN! JOHN!"
Echoes of his own voice came back, twisted and hoarse. Mocking him. Laughing at him. Johhhn hahaha! JOHHHHNNNN! WHERE ARE YOU? OH JOHNNN! AHHAHHAH!
Sherlock ran until he came to a wall. He slammed into it, pounding on it with his fists as the voices of those closest to him chided and murmured around him
No one loves you. Not even Mummy or Daddy, dear brother. Mycroft…
Are you burning yet, Sherlock? Does it burn? Moriarty…
Useless. You are useless. Utterly useless. Lestrade…
I wish you had actually stayed dead. Mary…
Just die, Sherlock. Just… die. Molly…
But, as the last lights were going out down this final corridor, a new voice came through. One that shattered the rest. One that meant the most.
And I loved you… Sherlock Holmes… I loved you…
"John…"
But now… you're dead…
The last light flickered as a tear rolled down Sherlock's face. "John, I-"
…
"Sherlock, why aren't you answering your phone?" John called as he climbed the steps to 221b. "I've been texting you all morning. I've got a case for you." Silence. "For God's sake Sherlock, it's 11 in the morning. Are you still sleeping?"
John walked into the flat and the first think he noticed was Sherlock lying on the couch, his back to John. He saw the empty glass on the table at first glance. "Oh, come on. Don't be hung over. Jesus," He walked over and nudged Sherlock. Glancing down at the table from this angle, he noticed the needle. Panic started to set in.
"Come on, now, Sherlock," John trembled. "Wake up." He shook Sherlock's shoulder. "Wake up!" He grabbed for Sherlock's wrist. Ice cold. No pulse. "No, no, no Sherlock you can't do this. You can't leave me again. No…"
Turning Sherlock over and pulling him onto the floor, John tried to restart his heart, knowing full well that it wasn't going to work. Tears starting to stream down his face, John did the chest compresses futilely. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, stop. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, stop. After 20 minutes of this, John gave up. He collapsed over his best friend's cold body, wracked with sobbing.
He called Lestrade and Mycroft, heart heavy.
Molly and Anderson were the first to arrive. John assumed that Lestrade had called them. Molly took John into the kitchen as Anderson prepped Sherlock's body to be taken to the morgue.
Suddenly, Mycroft came running in, out of breath, just as the body bag was being zipped. He froze in the doorway. "N-no…" he stammered. Pushing Anderson out of the way, he unzipped the top of the body bag revealing Sherlock's cold face. "Oh, no, Sherlock, no." This was the first time John had seen Mycroft show any emotion or worry towards anybody, much less the brother he supposedly despised. It only made John's heart more deadened.
Mycroft finally moved to Sherlock's armchair after weeping over his brother's stiff corpse, allowing Anderson and Molly to take the body out and into the ambulance.
People came and went. Mrs. Hudson was a mess. She came up after she heard the sirens and the footsteps on the stairs. The body on the stretcher rolled past. Anderson gave her a sad look and she realized who it was. Finding John and Mycroft in 221b, she broke down. John comforted her and sent her back downstairs to her flat after an hour of talking. Mycroft just sat in Sherlock's chair in silence.
After a few hours of silent tears in the flat, John left, taking a cab back to his home with Mary and their daughter. Mycroft was left alone in 221b. Not being able to stand just sitting there any longer, he too left and went back to his empty home, alone.
…
Over the course of the following year, John often visited Sherlock's gravesite. He would beg Sherlock for "one more miracle", but he knew that, this time, he wasn't coming back.
On the anniversary of Sherlock's death, John went to the gravesite but never came home. He was found three days later leaning against the gravestone, a bullet through his head and a note in his hand. "I'm sorry" was all it said.