What does G do when she should be writing essays? She writes Johnlock. Enjoy. :)
I.
He falls beautifully, like an angel. A dark silhouette against the grainy sky, suspended in flight. Then a crumpled figure on the pavement below, a shape, a body. A broken form leaking scarlet, a deep crimson that stains John's pale, shaking hands. John realizes later that it wasn't the fall that killed him: it was leap.
II.
John has seen blood before, he was an Army doctor for God's sake. He's seen the worst injuries a man can see: limbs blown off, eyes shot out, organs leaking and tissue splattered. But it was never anyone he knew…at least, not well. It was never Sherlock's blood. Sometimes the man seemed so alien, so impossibly brilliant, that John wondered if he was even human. He had wondered, horribly, if Sherlock were laid flat on a morgue slab, would his corpse contain the same organs, the same blood, the same tissue and tendons, as everyone else? Then, it had been easy to reassure himself that he would never have occasion to find out: Sherlock, brilliant, invincible Sherlock, would outlive them all. And then he didn't. And John discovered that Sherlock bled the same ruby plasma as everyone else.
III.
That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note? A note, yes. Something tangible. Something to cling to, like a life vest in rough seas. Something to hold onto during the long nights, when you can't sleep because you're too busy reliving every moment you spent with them. Something to hold to your nose and breathe against, as you try to inhale their essence just one last time. Something real, something palpable. That's what an ordinary person might do. Then again, ordinary people don't go around hurling themselves off buildings to save their friends. And Sherlock Holmes was never ordinary now, was he?