His Fault
John sighed sadly staring up at the ceiling of his small room at 221B. Sherlock was dead. Tears poured from John's faded brown eyes and down his slightly tanned face before reaching Sherlock's pillow. His best friend was dead. It felt like someone was stabbing at his heart. His mad genius was gone. John sat up and looked from his bare window out into the dark night his hallowed face being illuminated by the silver moon. The police were alone tonight with no consulting detective to help them (Solve their case for them). John winced and ran a shaking hand through his short brown hair. He wondered what Mrs Hudson would do if he died as well as Sherlock; she was cut up enough as it is. John reached under Sherlock's pillow and brought out a small blood stained penknife, the one Sherlock had given him for his last birthday. He brought the knife it down on his thin wrist. John hated himself for doing it, for giving in to the pain and sadness and repeating his habit. But it was after all his fault Sherlock was dead, if his life wasn't on the line maybe he would have lived. John cut his arm again and again smiling at least he was hurting for what he did to Sherlock. But it wasn't enough he had killed Sherlock so shouldn't he die too? John wondered bringing the knife down again would it hurt to die? What is death like? Will Sherlock forgive me for killing him? The last one he deliberated on the most, would he forgive him? He was his best friend after all. Having convinced himself he would forgive him he started cutting himself more than before, until his arms were covered in warm crimson blood, staining them red. John smiled as he brought the shard down on his arm before falling backwards in his own blood so he was lying on Sherlock's bed. John sighed sadly staring up at the ceiling of his small room at 221B. Sherlock was dead and so was he.