I've seen angels fall from blinding heights…
John stared at his bare feet. Why did that little sentence keep coming back? He felt sick, nauseous, just thinking about it. Was Casino Royale seriously the last Bond film they had been watching together? Despite himself a smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth. Sherlock, as always, saw immediatley the Love-knot, so she had a boy-friend, so she was deeper involved than met the eye. Not really difficult to find out, he had said. Why was this such a blockbuster? He could do better. Could have done better, John added, bitterly. Really, what was the use?
He knew he had to accept the situation. He knew, but did not want to. His best friend had died. Commited suicide. Said his deductions were all lies. Of course it wasn't! John had witnessed his arrogance more than often, baffled at his friend's intellect. He closed his eyes, sighed, rubbed his forehead. He felt tired, but he did not want to sleep. His friend's body just kept falling and falling, and nothing he could do.
Sherlock had never cried, yet he did then. On top of the building. John let his eyes rest on the skull. It had been Sherlock's friend. Now it was his. His only friend.
His feet were cold, so he stood up to pull on socks. His own drawer was empty. He could ruin Sherlock's sock index, if he wanted. Sherlock would not mind. Carefully he opened his friend's drawer. Now he noticed the pattern; black, blue, grey; all alternating. Two black, three grey, one blue, one grey, four black. The rows of socks stared at him, irritated he shut the drawer. Why did Sherlock have so many socks? It's not as if he were to wear them now. He sank down upon Sherlock's bed. The poster of the elements hung on the wall. Sherlock knew all the elements by heart, also the way these little molecules and atoms looked like. Could that be faked?
His musings were interrupted by the telephone ringing. He didn't bother to look who it was. Harry, obviously. Again. She would not leave him alone, although that was the only thing John wanted. As long as he was alone in the rooms, the kitchen, it was easier to imagine nothing had happened. Sherlock could walk through the door any minute. Again, John smiled absently. He would ask him why his blogger was not coming after him. He would pour a waterfall of words down on him, making a point. He always did that. John loved it, he had loved it.
He slid down the bed and sank unto the floor. Suddenly he felt so alone, that he started crying softly. His sobs grew louder and louder. He tried to stop it, but he couldn't. His head smashed in, empty eyes, blood-red curls. Johns hands were shaking, he tried to stop it in vain, his muscles ached. He knew not how long he had been sitting on the cold floor, in his friend's bedroom. Stiff and tired, hungry and inmensely alone. He missed the scratching on the violin, he missed the moaning, the complaining. The begging for cigarets. Never again would they run out of the house, following some obsure murderer or kidnapper. The swirling coat now hung lifeless on the peg, the scarf stuck a little out of the sleeve. He was waiting for a miracle. But miracles don't happen. Heroes don't exist. Angels never fall. At least, that was what he was always told. Everything people tell is a lie.
With Sherlock's socks, but his own coat, he slipped in his shoes. He hesitated, took the scarf and breathed in the scent. Not his scent anymore, of course. Everything was washed properly, blood everywhere. Blood that was not supposed to be anywhere but in his body, or to do anything else than feeding the grey cells of the smartest man on earth. In the earth.
He needed some air. Suddenly displeased and impatient with himself, John leaped down the stairs and smashed the door close behind him, as loudly as he could. It felt good, actually doing something. He had always been a man of acting. Mycroft had told him, Sherlock had seen it. He inhaled the cold air deeply. It hurt, but it was a good hurt. He breathed out, and pushed back the tears. Not again. Not in the middle of the street. The sickening feeling in his stomach was always there. Tomorrow would be the day. He had to go back, support Mrs. Hudson, probably speak to some newspapers. Not that he minded that, on the contrary. He would tell them the truth. And with that goal in mind, he turned and walked slowly back to Baker Street. Another day was coming, tomorrow. Without him. But he had to go on. Had to go to the funeral. Alone. The coldest blood runs through his veins, but he knows his name, and he would never forget it. The angel that fell from a blinding height.