Sherlock stood at the site of his own grave. He had been to late. Just days before he had been just to see, his name had been the only one he recognized then. Now there was another. The polished stone beside the one with his name on it sat like had always been there, it seemed to mock him. The great Sherlock Holmes had screwed everything up. He had failed. Molly had insisted he wait at least two weeks before trying to contact any of the people he had only been trying to save. Only now did it hit him how much he had failed. This moment staring down at the fresh grave he wished he had actually jumped. It would have been better than this. Anything would have been better than this.
'If he had only come home sooner,' he thought to himself. The apartment was a mess. John hadn't bothered to clean up any of Sherlocks most recent disasters, and now Sherlock didn't have the heart to touch any of it. He didn't dare sit on the couch, he couldn't mess it up. The indent of where John had sat was still firmly printed into the cushion. His morning coffee, now two days old, sat on the table beside the couch. It was as if any moment John would walk in. It took everything Sherlock had to admit that it wan an impossible hope.
He would walk in and smile because Sherlock was alive. He would hug him no matter how awkward it might be, that was all he yearned for. He just wanted one more moment with his best friend. His only friend. It was all his fault. If he hadn't delayed coming back so long he would have noticed that John wasn't himself. Maybe no one else hadn't seen it but Sherlock would have. It always seemed to fascinate John the way Sherlock could notice everything.
He had tried so hard to get to the top of the building in time. It was his fault for not being there. If only he could have been faster. He had tried to call him the moment he saw him up there. He remembered hearing the familiar ringtone of John's phone when he jumped. If only he could have caught him in time. Been there in time. Spoken to him in time. Maybe then it never would have happened. Maybe then there would be no polished stone next to the one labeled 'Sherlock Holmes.' Maybe then John would be here. Maybe he would be sitting in the seat he always sat in. Maybe he would be sipping his coffee and reading the news as he so often did. Maybe then Sherlock would finally be able to tell him how much he meant to him.
He would tell him how he would have been there sooner if Molly had not insisted. Told him how he had jumped to save him. But now he can never tell him any of that. Now he understood why John jumped. As tears completely blurred the final corners of vision, his knees buckled and he couldn't stand. He didn't even want to try. He just sobbed into his hands, unable to control himself any longer. He finally realized what it was really like to lose the best and only friend he had ever had.