That's just a little thing that I couldn't get out of my head, sorry, it's short and... well, I just wanted to write this.
You can take this as Johnlock or just a friendship (though I don't think that the word "just" is appropriate in this case).
"John… John, wake up. John… please…"
But John didn't wake up. His hands were turning cold, his eyes were empty, he wasn't breathing anymore. And Sherlock wasn't breathing too. He was choking, desperately trying to stop the tears flowing from his eyes.
John Watson was gone.
Sherlock's only reason to eat, to sleep, to live- was gone.
The detective was observing the thin streamlet of blood on the pavement, dark and thick. He still couldn't have believe this, despite the body in his arms. He couldn't just-
"John," he whispered, his voice was breaking. "John…"
Red and blue lights were glowing in the dark alley. But it was too late, even Sherlock knew that. That's why he was just kneeling on the cold ground and stroking his best friend's hair. He slowly closed John's eyes. Because he couldn't bear this empty gaze. Someone was trying to get him up, to take him away from John, but he was yelling and fighting, and they left him alone for a moment. He calmed a little after that, when he'd heard a familiar voice. He didn't know who was that person though, but this voice… it was someone kind. They didn't pull him back, he could stay where he was.
Later he could said that it was Greg Lestrade's voice, but in that moment he knew just two things for certain: John Watson was dead and he was alone again.
An hour later he found himself in his armchair, wearing the blue dressing gown. His knees under his chin, two blankets on his arms, a mug with hot tea in hands and still, still shaking like a man with a flu. He heard the soothing murmur of Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's voices. He wasn't listening. He was rewatching everything in his mind, again and again. John pulling him back, the loud noise, the scream, the blood on John's chest, groan, pain, lights, mess-
Suddenly he realized that there was silence. And that there was something wet on his cheek.
Everything in the room froze.
Because Sherlock Holmes was crying.