Have some feels.
You know the feeling you get when you're walking down a flight of stairs, and the next step is farther down than you thought it was? Your stomach does a flip and your heart catches, right? Running into that flat, and finding Mrs. Hudson quite unharmed, I felt something like that. Only it was ten times stronger, the immediate fear almost crippling.
I don't know how he set up that phone call, but then, he is Sherlock. He had done much more intricate things than that before. And it had to be him behind it—of course it did. He wanted me to leave, quickly, and without him. That's why he had blown off Mrs. Hudson's "attack": because he knew she was fine, and he had to stay. Why would he do that? Why did he want me to leave him alone, and why couldn't he just tell me? What exactly was he planning to do?
Heart sinking and stomach turning painful flips inside of me, I had turned on my heel and ran back out of the flat without a single word to Mrs. Hudson. I had to get back to the hospital. I had to, before Sherlock did something stupid without me.
But it was too late. I knew that even as I hailed the cab outside and flung myself through the door. Sherlock planned everything perfectly—he knew how I would respond once I found Mrs. Hudson alive and well, knew exactly what I would do. He knew I'd come straight back. He would've planned everything to the last second around my reaction time. But I still had to try. Just giving up wouldn't do any good. There was still a chance, however small, that I had time.
I got the call as I climbed out of the taxi right beside the hospital. I started to run inside even as I began to talk to Sherlock, but he didn't let me. He shouted at me, told me to turn around and stay put. Then he said to look up. Deep down, I understood instantly what was happening, but I had been in denial until…until…
His note. That's what he'd said. Why would he say that to me? Why would he do that to me? Make me watch? Why did he make me watch as, after telling me a lie so blatant even I could catch it, he tossed his phone aside, and take the quick way down? How could Sherlock do that? He never gave up, so why did he—why did he—I still couldn't say it. I just couldn't. But…I saw him jump. I saw him fall through the air, his coat flapping above him like a cape. And God, I could hear him hit the pavement. There was so much blood, and people surrounded him before I could blink, and I couldn't get near him. I staggered to his side and tried to take his pulse from his wrist, but they took my hand away from him and shouldered me aside. They wouldn't allow me anywhere near my best friend. My only friend. I could only watch, strangers holding me back, as Sherlock was loaded onto a stretcher and rushed away. When he was gone, the others just seemed to vanish, leaving me alone, standing on the blood-soaked sidewalk.
When it started to rain, I let my shock, my fear, my despair out. I let it all out, and it streaked down my face as tears that became invisible in the water pouring from above. It was darkly appropriate, I thought, that even the sky should mourn the sight that it had just witnessed alongside myself. In the blink of an eye, the end of the greatest man I had ever known, the end of the man who had never had a friend before me.
Without knowing how I had gotten there my knees had hit the wet pavement, and I was still staring at the place where Sherlock had disappeared, as if hoping he would walk back around that corner, wiping the blood off with a towel and saying "Well, that was tedious. Hungry?" But he didn't. He never came back around that corner, and I was left, alone, crying like a child because somehow, the strongest and most invincible man that had ever been had just…gone. Right in front of me, he had just ended it all.
What happened after that was an unrecognizable blur to me. I think there was a funeral, in which few participated. I'm pretty sure Lestrade was there, understandably torn up, and possibly Anderson and Sally Donovan as well, surprisingly upset as well. I vaguely remember it being a closed-coffin affair.
The days have all blurred together. I found a job, and on occasion, Lestrade still comes around to talk and ask my opinion on certain cases. I was no Sherlock, but I had picked up some of his observation skills, and surprisingly, I actually did help solve a few cases. Still…nothing was the same. Anderson lost his job, stubbornly refusing to let the Sherlock case rest, which was startling enough to most people, and Sally barely talked, but I couldn't manage any interest. It was Sally, it was Anderson, it was the whole of London that had caused the tragedy in the first place. They were the most adamant that Sherlock was a fraud, and only now that he was gone did they realize their mistake. Only now that he was gone did they understand how much they needed him, and how wrong they were.
I haven't tried to make any more friends. Sherlock was my only friend, truly. The notion used to make me feel rather lonely, but not any longer, because I realized something else. Not only was Sherlock my only friend; I was his as well. I was Sherlock's first and only friend, and that…That right there makes me feel incredibly lucky. Blessed, even, to have had that amazing opportunity.