Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

John saw Sherlock jump. Time froze, everything stopped. There was no sound of London traffic, no wind - only the sound of his own racing heart. And then as soon as it stopped, it started again, at full pelt. John raced across the tarmac, nothing would stop him from reaching his friend. There was a niggling hope inside the army doctor, that this was all some elaborate hoax, that Sherlock would jump out of the shadows claiming it was all part of an experiment. But he knew it wouldn't be.

He ran out into the road, not looking to see where the traffic was or caring about his own safety - passing by the small building on his right he screeched to a halt. No. NO! The form of his best friend was lying motionless. Lifeless. No, he had to see for himself. With his own eyes.

Out of seemingly nowhere, a cyclist slammed into John's right side with great force, throwing him forwards and onto the hard ground. His head hit the concrete, sending his vision blurry, ears ringing loudly. He pushed himself up with great effort, trying to blink away the darkness threatening to take over and ploughed onwards, a steely determination filling his features. By now a crowd had formed around the body, but John reached the scene within a matter of seconds, trying to push his way through. "I'm a Doctor, let me come through," he slurred out, a concussion making itself evident, "let me come through please, he's my friend" his voice broke as he stumbled through the mob. "He's my friend, please." But people were pulling him back, trying to stop him from reaching the detective. His detective. But he pushed through, and John finally got a good look at the damage. There was crimson blood swirling on the already wet pavement like some sort of sick artistic painting, leaking from Sherlock. From his head. That shouldn't be there...blood... blood needs to stay inside. Especially when it was Sherlock's blood. Someone turned the consulting detective over; the stark contrast of the red blood against the now even paler face was horrifying. The army doctor flung a hand out grasping Sherlock's wrist in his hands. It was cold, too cold. He pressed two fingers down, just hoping to feel something. Anything. But there was no pulse. Realisation dawned upon John like a punch in the face. His friend was gone. He fell backwards, legs unable to support his own body weight anymore; a few members of the crowd caught him, trying to ease his collapse. But John didn't care about any of that anymore. He couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His best friend... his only friend... was dead.

Sorry for being evil, but I was beta'ing a friend's Sherlock fanfic (SnowstarRocz) and this just sort of… happened. Used some of her wording too, so kudos to her.
Very short, but please review! Peace out, Holmies.