A/N: Lame title is lame. Anyways, this needs some explanation. This was supposed to be the epilogue to a complicated AU, where John had multiple personality disorder, and was John and Moriarty. It ended with it being to much for him, and he jumped.
I'll probably never write the rest of the AU, but I really liked how this part came out, so here.
John Watson jumped.
Sherlock saw it all, the short leap that turned his only friend into a lifeless corpse. He hit the ground, and Sherlock perfectly heard the sound accompanying it.
Sherlock didn't look over the edge of the building, instead he raced towards the stairs.
John couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. Sherlock just had tea with him a few simple days ago, he couldn't be dead now. Not the guy who had made him laugh, not the man who saved his life numerous times, not the person who helped him more than anyone else ever did .
Not his best friend.
Sherlock stumbled down the stairway, thoughts racing through his mind as he tried to think of any way he could possibly be alive. Any thought that seemed the slightest bit plausible he held onto, Sherlock simply refused to entertain the idea of going to the flat alone, not having someone to talk to, just going back to how things used to be.
He had the slightest bit of hope, which was crushed the moment he stepped out of the door.
John was there, lying on the ground. Blood poured out of his head, and he was very pale. A small crowd of people were gathered around him, which Sherlock pushed through, struggling to be by his friend's side once more.
He saw John's eyes were shut, and he had a strangely peaceful look on his face, as if he was free from a heavy burden.
Sherlock took John's wrist in his hands, and his world came crashing down around him.
No pulse.
Sherlock stood, and he looked down at his friend, trying to hide the feelings rising up in him. The paramedics soon arrived, and then left, taking John with them. The crowd dispersed, and all that was left was Sherlock.
He backed up a step, and then another, and then he turned and broke out into a run, taking shelter in a nearby alley.
He shut his eyes and leaned against the cool brick building, and he forced his mind to accept a simple truth.
John was dead.
John's funeral was a small affair, with just a few close friends and relatives. Harry, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and several others showed up, and they all talked awkwardly about the great man John had been.
Sherlock was there, standing alone in a dark corner, not talking to anyone, and never taking his eyes off the casket. He was the first to arrive and the last to leave.
John's obituary in the newspaper was rather small, despite everything, good and bad, that he did. Just a few simple sentences about his life, nothing much at all.
Sherlock kept the newspaper, though he never re-read it. He hated seeing his best friend's and worst enemy's life summed up that way.
John's things stayed in the flat. His jacket still hung next to Sherlock's scarf, his chair still facing Sherlock's, his laptop still on the desk.
Sherlock didn't allow anyone to touch any of it, even the thought of moving the things an inch would make him mad.
Sherlock still was a consulting detective. He took talking to his skull back up. He still helped the police on tricky cases, and he still shot the wall when he was bored. He returned to normal life, but he was undeniably different. Not the same energetic detective he once was.
John Watson died that day.
And in a way, Sherlock Holmes did as well.