John sat on the curb, numbness swallowing him. He stared down at the street, wishing it all to be a horrible nightmare. But of course, it wasn't. His best friend was dead and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. He closed his burning eyes, not wanting to cry again. He could still hear people working behind him, the police had come to investigate and collect James Moriarty's body from the roof. John was aware that Lestrade was here somewhere, but John didn't want to talk to anyone. He searched hard for the soldier he knew he had, but he couldn't find it. He was a broken man now. He ran his hands through his hair, opening his eyes again. His eyes remained on the street, his mind replaying everything he had just seen. Sherlock. Jumping. Falling. He was dead. No, no, Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead. Never could Sherlock possibly die. But John knew he was just lying to himself. Sherlock Holmes was human, however much he did or didn't act like it. Not that it mattered now anyway, Sherlock was dead and John was helplessly alone.
John's thoughts were interrupted by something being placed around his shoulders. Probably just a shock blanket, John thought. But as he pulled the fabric around himself, he realized it was a coat. Sherlock's coat. John looked at Lestrade who had sat down next to him. "I thought you might want that," Lestrade said. His voice was soft, gentle, John had never heard him speak like that. "So you're over here to ask me questions about what happened then?" John asked, not really suprised at how broken his voice sounded. Lestrade shook his head. "No, not yet. You're still I'm shock. You need a bit of time to figure it out for yourself first." John nodded slightly and looked back to the pavement, holding onto Sherlock's coat.
Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I'm sorry, John." John said nothing in response, a burning sensation rising in his throat. The coat around him felt warm, comfortable. John wished desperately that his friend were here, wearing the coat, turning up the stupid collar. But of course he was wishing in vain.
John Watson was broken, helplessly alone, clinging to a coat on the curb of the street.