AN: okay hi, first ever Sherlock fanfiction so be easy on me if it's shit, I may start writing Sherlock drabbles to get the characterisation before writing a full story, anyway I need a plot for a full story first.
This is dedicated of a sorts to Sherlockian Dreams who's story Shadows inspired me to write Sherlock and the first few chapters definitely put me in the right mood to write angst (go read it, it's amazing!).
He stood on the edge of St Barts, looking down; was this how he had felt, as he stood there on the roof. He laughed ironically, he had come here to die, the place that he had lost the only thing worth living for, except, before he hadn't known that.
He was a mess, he knew that; his clothes hung off him at odd angles, he had dark bruised shadows under his eyes, when he did sleep he lost his best friend all over again, he woke up, covered in sweat with tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn't live like that any more stuck without his friend, with nobody; with nothing. It had affected him, more than he thought it should have, he had lost friends before, many friends; seen them die right before him; but this was different. He could have saved Sherlock, couldn't he? He was sure he could, instead he stood there, gaping up at him as he spread his arms and seemed to fly towards the ground, faster and faster. He didn't need to be a doctor to know he wouldn't survive.
He'd let his best friend die, he'd watched him, he'd killed him. That he was sure of.
And so John leant forward slightly taking a deep breath, looking down, knowing this would be the last thing he saw. Somehow that didn't make him sad because he'd lived his life but now he couldn't, not without Sherlock.
He vaguely wondered why he was so attached to him anyway, he was rude, he was arrogant he was infuriating, so why did he care for him so much?
It didn't matter, he decided, why he cared for him; just that he did.
And that was the last thing John Watson thought as her spread his arms, like Sherlock had months earlier, and launched himself toward the ground.
Sherlock let out a strangled yell and ran towards John, calling for him desperately, needing to reach him. Mycroft grabbed his arm, telling him he couldn't blow his cover but he pushed him off not hearing. He bolted toward the pavement where John lay, spread eagle, a crowd already forming around him and dropped to the ground.
A drop of water fell to the ground and seemed to explode there in slow motion, Sherlock became aware that he was crying, but he didn't care. His head was reeling, because John hadn't planned; John was dead, and it was all his fault.
AN: okay, this really stressed me out because I couldn't seem to make it as sad as I wanted, please please pretty please give me a review because this is my first ever Sherlock fic and I'm terrified I didn't do these amazing characters justice.
Thanks for reading!