The blood stained the concrete. Oh God, it was so red. John turned Sherlock- the body- over. His blood-stained locks of hair dragged accross his face causing streaks of vermillion to cross over his eyes. Eyes that were once peircing and ever changing. Eyes that will never see such detail again.
The paramedics lifted the body up and placed it on a gurney. They dragged Sherlock away from John's grip. John didn't cry then. He just stared at the pavement- at the pool of blood, the pool of Sherlock's blood. He simply stared. The hospital staff would come to clean it up by the end of the day. How cruel that that one place, that should be stained with Sherlock's mark, would be cleaned. Sherlock would be errased from the hospital.
John stared.
After John returned from the graveyard, after telling Sherlock- more like Sherlock's tombstone- that he thought he was human, he cried. He didn't really cry at the graveyard. Then John had still tried to retain some composure. Back in the sanctuary of Baker Street- the sanctuary that no longer felt like it offered a shred of security- he cried. A proper sob. John held nothing back. He sat in his arm chair and cried in front of Sherlock's- an arm chair he shall nevermore press. He cried until he physically could not.
He fell asleep.
He dreamed of falling.
He dreamed of blood.
He dreamed of Sherlock.
John knew it was stupid, but he still continued to send texts to Sherlock. After the day at the graveyard, he knew that talking to the dead didn't really help, but it was more of the promise of help- the promise that would never be fulfilled- that urged him to do it.
First day back at work since you... Everyone avoided eye contact. Sarah was nice enough though. I remember when you crashed our first date, I was so mad at you then. I regret that now.
-JW
Lestrade came by and asked for help. Said I was the next best thing. I went to the crime scene. It was weird without you there. If you were there you'd probably tell me I missed everything.
-JW
I solved the case. You would have finished it in two days. I miss you. I don't think I'll do that again. It reminds me too much of you.
-JW
I don't want to remember you. Every time I do I just end up back at Bart's. Why did you jump, Sherlock? You were never a fake. Why? Did I really mean that little to you?
-JW
Life goes on. It's boring without you.
-JW
I miss you.
-JW
I hate you. You did this to me. I was happy when you were alive, but then you had to go and fucking jump of a goddamn roof and kill yourself. Is this what you wanted? Did you want me broken and crying? Did you want to break the hearts of everyone who ever cared for you? Mycroft, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and Molly? Me? You killed us all, you know. You killed us when you killed yourself.
-JW
I'm sorry. I just wish sometimes you could come back.
-JW
I know you won't. You're dead. I wish I were too if it meant I could see you again.
-JW
I haven't moved any of your stuff. It's all still here. All you sodding lab equipment. All your chemicals. All your books.
-JW
My stuff's still here too. I don't know why. I haven't done anything with it. I go on, day by day. Nothing changes, not like when you were here.
-JW
I don't do anything anymore. No one at work talks to me. I think they know just to lay off. Please come back, Sherlock.
-JW
I haven't talked to Greg in six months. I saw him in the shop today, I didn't talk to him though. He looked frazzled. I wonder what I look like. See what you did to us?
-JW
I'm alone. I don't even know if I was really your friend. What was I to you, Sherlock? You told me once that I was your friend- you only friend- but then why did you jump? Friends don't kill their friends, Sherlock. I thought you would know that.
-JW
I quit my job at the clinic. There's no point. Everyone there is going to die anyway, regardless of what I do. They'll all die. I'll die. Like you.
-JW
I took my gun out for the first time today. I didn't have anything better to do. I cleaned it.
-JW.
I don't eat anymore. I don't sleep. I just think. Is this what it was like for you? Your mind always racing? Why didn't I ask you these questions when you were still here. Maybe I'll ask them. Someday.
-JW
John sat at the desk with a pen and paper in front of him. His gun lay next to his hand. He was dressed in his pajamas- he had been for two weeks straight. He cried. He wrote.
Sherlock,
I don't know what you wanted to do when you jumped off Bart's. I don't know why you did it. At first I thought it was because you were a fake, but you weren't. I thought that maybe you did it for something better. But you didn't. I thought that maybe you didn't care for me at all. That maybe I was just a pawn in your game. Maybe you did care. I don't know. I only know one thing- I love you. I loved you and you killed yourself in front of me. I'm not sure if I forgive you. I can't change it, but it still hurts. It still fucking hurts. Maybe I'll be able to ask you when I'm done here. Maybe you'll explain it to me. I hope so.
I'm coming.
-JW
John grabbed his gun and aimed it through his mouth at the base of his skull.
He pulled the trigger.
He fell to the ground, with just the barest hint of a smile on his face.