No. Sherlock was lying. He was not a fake, no one would ever convince him he was a fake…
He blinked, wading off the oncoming tears, the rising panic.
"What?"
"That's what people do isn't it? Leave a note."
"Leave a note when?" Surely not. He wouldn't. John had no one. He couldn't-
"Goodbye John."
"No. Don't." He wanted to scream, cry, anything. But he felt frozen. He couldn't look away.
From up on the rooftop, Sherlock reached out a hand towards him. Subconsciously, he returned the gesture automatically.
Sherlock let his hand drop. He chucked his phone behind him.
"SHERLOCK!" John lurched forward, panic so tight in his chest he couldn't breathe.
Sherlock jumped.
His coat flew behind his best friend's body, like wings.
"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't believe for one second that I am one."
John was glad he didn't see the impact.
He was running, running, everything a blur of pain, pain, pain. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see-
He's knocked down. Some stupid cyclist. He hits his head but stands up anyway, staggering as he runs towards Sherlock's broken body.
He turns the corner and his legs buckle. With immense effort he lifts himself back up, he has to see it. Has to know…..
There it is.
Blood streams down the cobblestones in rivers, slipping into the gutters.
People, so many people. Nurses, paramedic's…..
He reaches the body.
Eyes still open. Bloody trickling from his forehead, pale and unmoving.
"Let me through please." He speaks with forced calm, pushing through the crowd. Arms pull at him. He pushes them away sloppily.
"He's my friend, no, he's my friend." His knees buckle and his whole body shuts down for a minute, head rolling limp as arms grab at him.
No, this can't be happening, no….
He puts his fingers on Sherlock's bloodstained wrist and flinched. Cold and lifeless. No pulse.
"Oh g-god no. Jesus n-no."
The body was lifted onto a stretcher and rolled out of sight. The hands left him and suddenly he was alone, still kneeling on the ground.
Police were arriving now, running from their cars, sirens wailing.
He screamed. Screamed himself raw. Chest- aching sobs mixed with the screaming. He knew people were watching but he didn't care.
Hysterical.
Suddenly a large, worn hand was on his arm.
"John, John, breathe."
"I can't, it's him, I can't-"he couldn't catch a breath. He was hyperventilating on his sobs.
The hands guided him off the street and onto the edge of the pavement.
John hid his face in his hands.
They were stained crimson.
He could hear Lestrade talking but it sounded like a mile away. Talking to more police men.
"Let him have the coat officer."
"But Detective Lestrade, its evid-"
"He's been through enough."
Something warm was wrapped around his shoulders'. Long, buttoned and familiar.
Sherlock's coat.
He cries harder, curling into the fading warmth of a light that never should have gone out.
A black car careens around the corner and quickly the police scurry. Mycroft.
A thin, suited man jumps from the car and hurries to the scene where people are quickly scattering from.
The tall, elegant figure of the eldest Holmes stood frozen, staring at the blood-streaked ground.
"He jumped."
It's not a question.
John's shoulder's shake again with the strain. A thin hand rests on his arm, squeezing.
"I can't believe he- I didn't see- I didn't prevent- John, I'm so sorry." Mycroft's voice sounded strained and thin, his façade cracking beneath the weight of losing his brother.
A heavy thump sounded next to him, as if someone's legs had just given out.
Mycroft? No, it couldn't be, Mycroft didn't care, Mycroft didn't feel, Mycroft didn't- cry?
John felt tremors running through the body next to his and peeked through his fingers at the feet next to his. Water fell, like rain, splashing onto leather shoes.
John lifted his head, face wet and red, shaking, body aching with the strain of tensing for so long.
Mycroft sat next to him, immaculate suit crumpled and bloody, tears slipping down his cheeks, umbrella lying abandoned by his feet.
Broken. Just like him. Seems like the Iceman had a weakness after all.
An unfortunate sentiment for his baby brother.
John leaned over and threw himself at the only remaining Holmes. The coat slid off his back and into floor, forgotten.
He wasn't expecting his hug to get returned, but it was, and they clung to each other, pride forgotten as their chest's shook with the heaving grief.
The best friend, and the brother.
"One day, we'll all be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."
…
The first time he went to the grave was the first time it hit him how very alone he was.
"When Mike Stanford first introduced us I had no idea how much meeting you would change my life. I was nothing, Sherlock. Nothing. Failed veteran, with no family of friends to show for it. I was crippled and depressed, with severe PTSD and trust issues."
He swallowed thickly. "I was going to kill myself, the night I met you. I was so alone and I owe you so much," his voice cracked and hot tears fell down his cheeks.
"Just one more miracle, ok? Just this once, just for me." He steadied himself by leaning on the gravestone. He had to take a moment and remember to breathe.
"Don't. Be. Dead." His voice cracked again as a stream of tears fell down his cheeks and sizzled in the cold snow beneath.
…
There was so much media attention. Sherlock always had the press on his back but now-. Now, it was different.
Nobody let it go. There were theories. There were messages written everywhere. Spray painted on the walls, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."
It hurt.
He was angry with the people outside his flat door. Angry that they could hold hope when he could not.
Stupid.
The funeral had been last week. There wasn't a large gathering, it had been a private funeral, thanks to Mycroft, who didn't even have the damned decency to turn up!
John was there though. Much to his decided unhappiness. Adding to the grieving party was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and, Sherlock's parents.
That had been awkward. Everyone was cloaked in black, clutching hankies and flowers, tears and muffled sobbing making the soundtrack to what had to have been the worst day of John's life. Or second, he supposed.
Nothing, however, even came close to the sounds Sherlock's mother was making. Shrieking sobs, wailing that he didn't deserve it, not her boy, not her little boy.
John winced every time a new cry passed through her lips and it only added to the emotion writhing in his chest.
The poor females present were beside themselves now, the wails of a grieving mother only adding to their pain.
John made his leave early, but not before throwing a rose and a note down, on top of the closed casket.
They just didn't understand.
…
Life sucked.
He wasn't going to sugar-coat it. It sucked.
No best friend, no flat-mate, no cases, no point of living anymore.
He was pathetic. He knew that. He wrote notes to a dead person every day in a notebook that was supposed to be "healing" him.
It wasn't. It just made the pain come back.
He cried.
He never used to be a crier. He never used to be so dependant.
Grief. He was grieving.
He knows he should give himself a break. It's not his fault. He just lost someone he loved.
But he can't.
Because it's not just someone.
It's the man he loves. It's the man he most admired in the whole word. It's the man who saved him, when he didn't think he was worth saving.
He just doesn't want to live in a word without Sherlock in it.
"You said you weren't a hero, but you were mine and I will find you, whether in this life or the next."
John smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. His hand fumbled on his nightstand. His fingers connected.
The cold metal leached into his hand, sending a shiver down his spine.
The same gun that had crippled him, the same one he was going to use in the beginning, before that beautiful genius entered his life.
He couldn't help the tear that slid down his cheek and fell onto the cold, lifeless floor.
His body followed suit.