A/N: having a rough evening. So I wrote this. It helped. : ) so sorry to the heavy angst. For the angst junkies please enjoy.
John stares at the gates into Bart's, the dark colour blending into his vision, burning into his retina's, his mood is nothing but black. Darkness, there's nothing but black now, the light of his daily life is gone, dead, deceased, a cadaver on a slab, cold, frozen, already decomposing.
He shudders, suddenly noting the cold drips of rain on his face, or is it saltwater, is he really crying? Is this really happening right now? What did just happen right now?
With terrifying panic it floods back.
His best friend just took his own life.
Yes, right before his eyes. Smashed his head onto the pavement below John's feet. He tries to catalogue the numerous injuries that would probably be noted on his friend's body, falls from height often resulted in a catastrophic and multiple injuries. Shattered long bones, severed spinal chords, ruptured organs and hearts.
John isn't actually sure if his own heart isn't rupturing right now. His chest is tight and feels like it's ripping in two, it hurts to breath every single lungful of air, every single inhale that Sherlock will never ever take again. He would never breath in these toxic city fumes again. His lungs were stagnant, torn and punctured by fractured ribs.
He closes his eyes for a second but all he sees is the dead gaze of ocean eyes staring back at him, lifeless and surrounded by so much red. Sherlock's lifeforce spilled out onto the concrete below. John looks down quickly, realising his feet are on the edge of that very crimson puddle, so he really isn't daydreaming this, this must be real.
He clamps a hand across his mouth, he wants to vomit. The rain is washing Sherlock's blood away, down the curb and towards the drain, streaking the roadway with a dash of bright colour. Is that all that his blood is worth now, nothing but an artists streak of creativity in a concrete jungle or in this case graveyard. But this is not paint, this is real.
John stumbles away from the blood, he can't get it on his shoes, how would he ever forgive himself for allowing it to become imbedded in his souls. His stomach revolts at the movement and by the time he makes it to the wall of the hospital he bends and retches, his meagre stomach contents now joining the streams of the rainwater washing across the pavement.
He stands there for a minute, weak, shaky and utterly helpless.
How could he have been so stupid!? He growls inwardly, how could he not see this coming?
"You fucking moron Watson!" He shouts, balling his fist he plunges it into the stone wall, hard. But he feels nothing, his body is numb, even the pain in the pit of his angry stomach is invisible to his consciousness. "Fuck you Sherlock!" He looks up to the sky. "You bastard, how dare you leave me. You fucking bastard!"
Even when he lost a comrade in Afghanistan, as he'd watched young men's hearts stop beating before his eyes, fought tooth and nail to keep them alive, cracked their chests and given cardiac massage with his bear hands covered in blood whilst their bodies gave out it didn't feel like this.
Even when his mother had to explain to him that his father was dead at the hands of drink, fallen into a coma and choked on his own vomit from alcohol toxicity he never felt like this.
This.
This was agony.
Unbridled, utterly unbearable torment, how could Sherlock do this to him?
John stumbled on, down the road and away. He needs to get away from here. One more second in this horrible place and he might just vomit again. He pushes himself upwards by the wall to his left as to aid his movement along and starts to walk.
And then the pains begins to hit. Or more accurately pain in his right leg starts, shooting up from his thigh down his knee and calf and right up into his hip. It's like an electric shock slicing through his muscles, seizing them and exploding right through his conscious mind like a red hot blade.
Damn my leg.
He grimaces and hops for a moment. "Not now." He groans.
John is vaguely aware then of a sleek black car following him slowly down the roadway, but he chooses to ignore it. He manages it across a busy street, though he isn't sure how because he's not even looking at the traffic, his eyes aren't really cooperating right now, blurred and aching heavily. He limps down a narrow pathway in the bid to lose the unwelcome audience.
By the time he's back out onto another roadway the car is gone and he stops briefly. Breathless and exhausted.
His leg is agony and his shoulder is now faring no better, a burning spread of pain is radiating from his old gunshot wound, pins and needles are now shooting down his left arm and he clamps his hand tightly to try and combat the feeling but it does little.
He realises then that the street he's on is filled with people, even with blurred vision he can see many of them, are they looking at him? He hurries on quickly, his heart increasing in rate, what if they're all staring at him, what is Moriarty has his henchmen following him and hunting him down. What if this is why Sherlock took his own life, he was tricked into it by Moriarty's men? No, Sherlock was too clever for that, he would have out smarted them at any chance.
No. He was gone.
'Goodbye John.'
'This is my note, it's what people do don't they? Leave a note.'
"Shut up..." John groans. His head is pounding in time with his racing heart. At least his is still beating, more than he can say for his genius friend.
Panic rises upward from his chest. He can feel adrenaline burning in his veins and on his breath, thick and fast, he needs to get away from here. Too much noise. Too many people.
In a sudden burst of sound an ambulance races past, sirens blaring and John takes off at a sprint.
He doesn't know where he's going or in what direction but he needs to get out of here.
Right now.
He runs.
And runs.
His feet are pounding the pavement heavily, tight chest heaving with each breath but it feels good, the wind and rain in his face. He needs to get away from here. Every part of London reminds him of why he's still here.
He's still here and Sherlock isn't.
He wishes he has his gun.
He runs.
Horns are blaring. He can hear people shouting but he can't see any of them. None of them matter right now.
He runs.
Until he can't anymore.
He stumbles once, twice and grabs for the nearby railing, coming to an unsightly crumpled mess and collapsing to a stop over the rail to look at the river below. He recognises the place. Blackfriars bridge. The old bridge stanchions are standing before him, the swirls of river water are rushing around and past them, the Thames is flowing fast today. Perhaps going in wouldn't be the worst idea he's come up with, with no gun on him it's seemed a quick alternative.
A train rolls across the railway bridge, wheels squeaking and track clunking loudly, it's deafening to the doctor and in a moment he places his hands across his ears and grimaces.
He should have stayed at Bart's. What if there was something he could have done. What if they could have revived him? He curses.
No. No pulse. Too much blood, too much trauma.
He closes his eyes again but his vision swims with blood and he feels his knees begin to sag with his weight, unexpectedly giving way, he grips the railing tighter.
"John!" A distant and familiar voice, but it's not Sherlock.
'Goodbye John.'
No that wasn't Sherlock, it was in his head, he's gone.
Dead.
"John?"
Two hands are grasping him by his upper arms and holding him firmly. The voice is close to his right ear now. "John mate, can you hear me?"
Something comes out of his mouth but he isn't even sure if it's comprehensive or a noise at all.
"Come on. Away from the edge yeah?"
He feels himself turned around and a blanket pulled quickly around his shaking shoulders. Despite his useless vision he notes the silver grey hair and puts a name to the fuzzy face immediately.
"Greg." His voice is raspy and bone dry from running.
"Yeah it's me, lets get you home yeah?"
"Sher... he..." he chokes. He can't say it. If he says it it must be true.
"I know. We got the call, it's okay." Lestrade's voice is shaky but composed. "We need to get you home, come on, you're soaked through."
John hasn't even noticed, but now it's been mentioned he can feel it. A mixture of rain and sweat has penetrated most of his clothes. He's still breathing hard from the exertion.
"It's just a few steps to the car, think you can make it?"
He looks up to see Greg's silver BMW parked in the bus lane, hazards on and small blue light flashing atop the vehicle. He nods weakly. But stepping forwards is easier said than done and his knees almost give out completely had it not been for the taller man's grasp on him.
"Easy alright. Almost there."
The inspector is patient as ever.
John doesn't know how long it actually takes for them to get into the car but he's suddenly seated in the passenger seat and Lestrade is bending over him fastening his seatbelt and tucking the blanket over him.
'Shock blanket.' Sherlock's smirking voice sounds in his mind.
"Not in shock." He blurts out loud.
He doesn't see the quick contort of pain the inspectors face makes at the statement.
"Your welcome to come back to mine if you want to. I mean if you can't face going back to..." Lestrade hesitates. "You know. Home."
John shakes his head. "Baker Street." He cries. "Mrs Hudson."
"An officer is on the way to her now."
"No!" John snaps. "I need to..." his voice cracks. "I have to tell her about..,"
"It's alright, we'll be there in less than fifteen."
Lestrade shuts the door and hops in but pauses, turning to the doctor. "Listen John. About Sherlock, I never meant for... I mean."
He pauses again. "Look I'm sorry." He suddenly says.
John's eyes quickly gain more clarity and the world around him comes more into focus. He turns his head to look at the inspector. "Just drive Greg." He says.