John watson was there in body, yet hardly in mind.
In his mind, he wasn't under that bloody bridge at the border of London. In his mind he went everywhere he had been to with Sherlock Holmes, every danger, every peaceful moment, every shout, every laugh. Everywhere Sherlock was, with the determined spark in his eyes, the genius flashes which crossed them all so often, the tender shade of red that spread on his cheeks after chading some bloody criminal, the cleverness trail he had left behind him wherever he went. No, he most definitely was not where that motionless, greyish-pale body he was bending next to was. What was left of his friend. No longer Sherlock, only a shell. Everything that made Sherlock himself was long gone by then. The numbness he felt was all too odd for John; he stared at the body blankly, whilst his mind was filled with memories.
"Dr. Watson."
Lestrade's worried voice drew him back to reality. He didn't want to stay there, not phsysically nor mentally, yet there he was. Because he had no other place to be now. He sealed of his heart - a skill he had picked on his military service - and started talking flatly.
"Dead, approximately 2 hours. Bled to death from a torn artery, from a wound done by a kni - "
"John." Lestrade repeated, calling him by his first name this time. John stopped talking and bit his down lip. The lump in his throat appeared at once. It wasn't until then he noticed that Sherlock was the only one to call him by his name for quite a while.
He reached his hand and smoothed Sherlock's dark curls away from his face. His face seemed so peaceful. What a terrible sight. John lowered his head. He was kneeling at the puddle of blood which pooled around Sherlock, the blood soaking into his pants gave him the shivers. He told him not to come with him. He told him to stay in the flat. He practically saved John. Despite John's objection, Sherlock didn't allow him to come. He knew it would be dangerous. If only John had got there sooner... He saved him, and paid with his own life. John could recall his last words to him: "I figured it out, John, all of it! Don't wait up." The enthusiasm in his voice, the same which took over it whenever he made another brilliant deduction - it echoed through John's mind so sharply he could almost hear Sherlock's deep baritone voice. It trickled into every corner of his consciousness, so did the realization he'll never be hearing it again.
He couldn't take it. The numbness filling him was gone immediately, and was replaced with paralyzing grief. Sherlock gave John something new to live for, after he thought he had lost everything; He was that new thing.
Now, once again, he has nothing to live for. John Watson's other half has left him.
When the tears broke out, he threw himself onto Sherlock's still, limp body for one last and only, one way hug.
He was contaminating a crime scene in the most blatant way of all.
No one had the heart to pull him away.
[I have NO idea why I just wrote that thing. I'm such a bad person. Going to throw myself out of the window now.]