Don't. – JW.
My feet feel glued to the cobbles. Cane shaking in one hand, phone in the other I send my 224th text to his decommissioned number. Staring up the at monstrous memories held captive in the stone walls of St Barts I stand where I stood 365 days ago. Closing my eyes images flash like torrential rain on the back of my eyelids. Standing on the edge of the god forsaken building in front of me. Falling from the god forsaken building in front of me. Dying on the pavement in front of the god forsaken building in front of me. 365 days since I saw him. 365 days since everything I ever knew shattered on the pavement with Sherlock's-
Inhale. Exhale. 365 days and nothing's changed. People: LeStrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft. People keep saying it'll get better. What do they know? What do they understand about-
365 days and he hasn't changed. Sherlock stands, coat flapping at his ankles as he leans on a stationary car, just watching. John just stands there, eyes closed and hand on shaking cane. And so Sherlock just stands there, watching. Again.
"Sherlock…" I whisper to the bustling street and apathetic people surrounding me. Watching the flashbacks of 365 days play on the backs of my eyes, trucks, bikes, buses and cars crash past, oblivious.
365 days later and I'm standing here, finally sure of something. Another engine zooms past, bus by the sound of chugging engine, I think, that's what he'd say at least. Without opening my eyes I type a few letters into the blank text space on my phone but don't press send. An ambulance passes. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 365 days. Inhale. 365 days. Exhale. Standing. Inhale. Jumping. Exhale. Falling. Inhale. Crashing. Exhale. My cane drops with a clang and I step forward, leaving the curb behind.
He can't take his eyes off him as John's cane shakes violently in his palm. It's like there's no one left in the world but them. Them and the cars careening past. Fists clench Sherlock does nothing. Lungs closing and heart expanding. Just needing to look into his deadening eyes. Impossible. Calming himself he breathes carefully, counting each breath for each day. Inhale. 1. Exhale. 2. Inhale. 3. And so on. Finally John's head lifts and his fingers fumble around the keys on his phone, eyes remaining closed, cane crashing to the cobbles. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. And John steps off the curb. Inhale. Exhale. And John stands there with people milling around the hospital, no one noticing the cripple in the middle with a car on his ankles. Crack!
I don't notice the figure on me as my body numbs and I barely register the impossible eyes staring into mine.
"John" whispered the voice I'd near forgotten. Cascades of tears tumble from his bleary blue eyes and my feet grow cold. I can't talk. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale exhale inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale. Something warm and wet trickles from the corner of my mouth as my eyes widen. A banshee screech escapes my faltering lungs as he holds me to his body. "Oh god. John? John!"
His thing fingers clasps my crimson painted hand and pulls the phone from my fingertips. His sobs wretch through the corpse in his hands as he reads the seven letters on the pixel cracked screen.
Sorry. - JW
From the rooftop of St Barts a familiar man looks down and watches, a smile stepping through his countenance and with a cackle James Moriarty walks to the stairs leading into St Barts hospital.