Sherlock's thoughts raced and raced on at its usual hyperspeed and found itself falling into nothingness.
Because for the first time in Sherlock's life, his mind was completely blank. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a faint echoing in the back of his head, what sounded like a pulse, a familiar heartbeat that Sherlock knew was now gone.
Gone.
It hit him. Hit him with a force strong enough to jumpstart his brain, but he didn't want his brain to work, he did not want to think, because to think means to acknowledge this impossible event, to think means to come back to reality...But this is real. John Watson is dead.
Because of you.
He slowly put down his phone as the thought echoed in his head, the heartbeat silent. The heartbeat gone.
The heartbeat dead.
It was very quiet.
Shot himself in the head.
He was very quiet.
Left a note.
His mind was very quiet.
You didn't come back, so I'm coming to you.
"Too late," he whispered to nothing in particular. Because there was nothing. No one to whisper to, nothing to do, nowhere to go. He was nothing and John was everything. John was his better half and now he was dead. The only man that ever cared for him was dead.
And it was HIS fault.
Everything he ever believed in suddenly crashed to the ground in pieces, and every iota of his self-control crumbled, and he found stupid, stupid, stupid tears running down his face. His steely blue eyes became a tempest, and it was then that Sherlock realized that he was human. It was then that he realized he had a heart.
Because he could feel the place where it had broken.
And it was then that he realized what he needed to do.
The realization came quietly and stealthily, and Sherlock only pondered it for a second before making his decision. It was so easy. So easy. There wasn't much to ponder over. No note need be left, no will need be made. Because the only person that actually matters, the only person that would actually care, was the person that Sherlock would be seeing soon. And wherever people go after death, it would be a much better place than Earth as long as John would be there.
And his mind was still and peaceful, thinking of nothing, absolutely nothing, nothing except for the slight chill he felt as he placed the metal barrel of his gun against his head, thinking of nothing but the slight pressure on his finger as he pulled the trigger, thinking of nothing but John, his friend John, until the gunshot sounded and then even John turned into nothingness, too.
Sherlock? Is that you?
Hello, John.