"Goodbye, John."
The words cut right through me, and time seemed to slow as my best friend leaned forward over the side of St. Bart's hospital. There was nothing I could do but watch. If not for the fact he was falling to his death I'm sure it would have been almost beautiful, with his dark coat spread behind him like wings and a look of pure serenity on his face as he fell.
Only a few seconds later, he hit the ground, and my soul shattered.
I let out a silent scream and lurched forward, determined to check if he really was... I couldn't even think the word. I was so lost mentally that I didn't care when the bike knocked me over, I just got right back up and resumed my desperate journey to the man that lay unmoving at the side of the road. There was a crowd of people gathered around him, but I ignored them and shoved them out of my way, finally getting to view my friend. His once bright and calculating eyes were now glazed over, and the blood that still poured from him had formed a halo of crimson around his head. He was pale in a way no one alive could be, but it didn't stop me from checking. I knelt shakily down beside him, and I searched desperately for a pulse, but there was no movement beneath my fingers.
That's when I finally broke.
I felt cold right down to my soul (if I even had one left). The kind of cold that no matter what I did, I would never feel warm again. My face was blank as I stood, and I proceeded to ignore my surroundings as I attempted to process what had just happened. To anyone looking at me, I probably looked indifferent to the bloody scene before me, but they couldn't see what was going on inside my head. I didn't react, there was nothing left of me to create a reaction. My eyes stared blankly forward, seeing nothing, in a way that I'm sure was similar to Sherlocks' in that moment. Some people may have described my lack of reaction as that the event 'hadn't properly sunk in yet', but they were wrong. This event was everything at the moment, and it had stripped me of all my emotions up to the point that I felt nothing. I couldn't.
The small crowd had grown larger with every passing second, and it looked as though someone had called the police as I became partly aware of bright flashing lights. I hadn't moved from my position, and my eyes continued to watch Sherlock as he was taken away in the ambulance. I dimly became aware of the fact someone was calling my name, but I took no notice of them, instead preferring the tranquil solitude I had allowed myself.
What was I feeling in that moment? I asked myself that question, as I wasn't completely certain. My brain was too foggy to think of anything except the image that had been permanently burned into my mind. The image of Sherlock's dead eyes staring blankly into the distance.
I think that's when it finally hit me. Sherlock was dead. Honest-to-God dead. I would never hear his deep baritone voice rattling off deduction after deduction. Never again would I get to see that gleeful sparkle in his eye as he solved a particularly complicated case. I would never get to tell him how amazingly brilliant he was. I would never get to tell him how much he'd meant to me, how he'd saved me. From myself.
It was at that moment I realised something. I would rather die than go back to the same boring, inconsequential life I'd been living before I met Sherlock. That was not an exaggeration. The only thing that kept me from getting my gun out of my trousers and ending it all right there and then was the thought that Sherlock wouldn't have approved. Even in death the man still influenced my decisions. There had to be something I could do, anything to take away the feeling of uselessness. Anything.
"John!" Lestrade had appeared in front of me and had shaken me out of my depressing thoughts long enough to get me wrapped in a shock blanket and bundled into a police car to send me home. If it could still be called that. On the way back I noticed my hands were covered in his blood. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the crimson that now stained my palms, even though the image brought on an onslaught of pain and bloody images from only minutes ago.
Mrs Hudson was crying silently when I was finally brought back to our- my flat, but I didn't stop to comfort her. I continued past her as though she wasn't even there, entering my bedroom and sitting down gently on my bed, in deep thought. I kept waiting for the tears that I was sure were only seconds away, but none came. I didn't sleep that night. Or any of the next three nights. However, I did sleep on the fourth night, as I finally entered the detective's room and slept in his bed instead.
I didn't hear from Mycroft over those few days, which was just as well. I knew in my heart I predominantly blamed him for Sherlock's death.
I got a few texts from Lestrade, but I didn't answer, so he didn't continue.
Mrs Hudson left on the second day. She told me she was only going for a few days, but I suspected it might be longer than that.
I slept in his bed every night after that.
The funeral went as could be expected. A few people cried, most didn't. I was not one of the few that did. I heard someone question if I had even liked Sherlock at all. I ignored them. Thankfully, the press were not there, but I doubt I would have cared much if they were anyway. It seemed like I didn't care about anything anymore. What was the point? Sherlock was gone, so why bother?
Some people tried to offer their condolences, but I merely nodded and walked away. Eventually, they seemed to get the hint and left me alone. I seemed to be constantly alone at the moment, just another reminder of what I had lost.
Three weeks on, I was standing in front of his tombstone. I just stared at it, there was nothing I wanted to say, after all it was only a chunk of rock. I read over the lines on the stone over and over again, as the words refused to take hold inside my mind. I bent down and placed a single white snowdrop in front of the stone that I had picked on the way an stood back to admire it. So beautiful, and yet it had barely had time to live before it was ripped away from those around it, away from those who had loved it.
It was then that my emotions returned in full force, so strong that I staggered backwards, reeling from the shock. I had expected sadness, pain and grief. What I had not anticipated was the raw, hot fury I felt bubble inside me, and I let out my most agonising scream, and along with it all my hatred and anger to the world around me. I began to pace, and let wild thoughts fly through my mind at break-neck speeds, and past my lips in a low growl.
That bastard! How dare he leave me alone like this! Does he not realise what I've had to go through?! We were supposed to solve cases together for years to come! Bloody Mycroft helped kill him! How could he force me to Did he not have a heart at all?! He left me. Alone. He shouldn't have had to die. Now I have no one. No one to save me from myself. No way to experience the thrill I got when I was with him. I can't solve cases on my own. I don't know how.
I needed something to keep me alive. Not sane, no, I'd gone past the mark of insanity already that much was clear.
Just alive.
Slowly, a grin split my features as I contemplated something. It was brilliant, really. My morals had gone out the window the moment my best friend had made me watch him commit suicide, so I had no problems with this idea. It would certainly be entertaining. Sherlock wouldn't have approved, but he was dead. He had caused me pain. Pain that had broken me, and had caused me to dissolve into madness. I couldn't take out my hatred on him, so I would do it on the world and people he had loved so much and had fought so hard to protect. I giggled with glee, and skipped away from Sherlock's grave, turning around one last time to blow it a kiss, before continuing along down my descent into madness and revenge.
Please review! I love to get feedback on all my stories, and this has been on my computer for a while so I thought I'd upload it just to see what people think! I will definitely write more chapters if people like this one!