"Goodbye, John."
Warning bells were blaring in John's mind. No. No. No. "No, don't-" John stopped as Sherlock tossed the mobile, his only lifeline to Sherlock, away. Panic had been building within John and now it threatened to consume him. Sherlock spread his arms and began to lean forward. No God, NO! "Sherlock!" His best friends' name tore from his throat before he could even think it. Lifting one foot into the air Sherlock did the unfathomable. He jumped.
John could see Sherlock's arms and legs wave wildly and his coat flare behind his body as gravity took effect. The fall lasted moments but those precious few seconds seemed a life time to John as he ceased breathing. A fraction of a second after he lost sight of Sherlock a loud thud could be heard, signaling the end. The end of everything.
Disbelief at what he had just witnessed consumed him. No. No, he didn't jump. He wouldn't do that. Or would he? Mind paralyzed and body in auto-pilot John swiftly trotted around the corner of the Ambulance garage. His eyes frantically skimmed over every person, object, and thing searching for…..Sherlock. Sherlock on the ground. He is lying on the ground. Ice seized John's heart and the world stopped. Everything except Sherlock's still form ceased to exist.
Force. Movement. Collision. Pain. Confusion. Everything was blurry. Why were his ears ringing?
Disoriented, John sluggishly pushed himself up from the asphalt. Sherlock. I have to get to Sherlock. John didn't understand why his legs were so clumsy. With every ragged breath John muttered his friend's name, "Sherlock". As quickly as his legs would carry him John stumbled to where a large crowd had gathered. Sherlock was unquestionably at the center and he needed John's help.
As he approached the crowd he called out, "I'm a doctor. Let me through." Desperately pushing past people John saw Sherlock. Blood. His hair was mopped with blood that ran down the pavement and formed a puddle. So much blood. "Let me come through, please!" Arms reached out and bodies moved in the way grabbing him, slowing him down. I have to get to Sherlock. Let go of me! Losing any pretense of control he had over his emotions John pleaded,"No he's my friend. He's my friend, please!" A man, doctor probably, had two fingers pressed to Sherlock's carotid artery and his other hand grasped Sherlock's shoulder shaking him. Sherlock limply swayed with the rocking motions of the doctor, not producing any movement of his own.
John, fighting those blocking his every move, bent down and reached out to grip Sherlock's wrist. Nothing. There was no pulse beating beneath Sherlock's pale skin. No jerking movement away from the contact as John touched his friend's skin as was normal. Absolutely nothing. The instant John released Sherlock's wrist it fell heavily to the ground.
Not fighting the hands anymore John was pulled away as the doctor shifted Sherlock onto his back. Sherlock's dark curls were so drenched in blood that they clung to the stone tiles as his face was turned upward. The detective's always pallid face was marred with crimson streaking down in dark tendrils. His eyes were open. The eyes that never remained still, always darted about observing every minute detail within seconds were now glazed over, unseeing. Still kneeling down John leaned back on his heels. Had all of those hands not been holding him in place he surely would've fallen over. Unable to take his gaze from Sherlock's empty eyes he muttered, "Mm, Jesus no…God, no…" His speech was slurred, His voice not sounding like his own. It took four men to lift Sherlock—no, Sherlock's body onto a gurney. John just sat and watched as his friend's body was rushed into the hospital, his limp arm hanging over the stretcher the whole way. With Sherlock now out of sight John looked down at the pavement. All that remained now was blood mixed with the rain making the crimson liquid spread further.
Voices. John was aware that those around him were speaking but they were too muffled, too distant for him to understand any of it. Breathe. All he could do was sit there and focus on taking every ragged breath.
Dead. Dead. Sherlock is dead. No pulse, blood everywhere, and now no Sherlock. The rain mixed blood on the ground got farther away as he was lifted by his arms up to his feet. People were still talking but he didn't care. Nothing they could say would change this. Change what he had just seen. What had just happened.
An undetermined amount of time passed before John realized he was alone. The crowd had dispersed and he no longer had arms steadying him and voices speaking meaningless words to him. He was alone. Truly alone.
With the detective's corpse and hospital staff now well out of sight, a wandering pedestrian turns the corner and begins walking down the street in front of Bart's Hospital. This is the route they take every day on their way home from work. This is their routine, a perfectly normal part of their life. It's drizzling still, as it has been all day. They don't see any indication that something has happened at Bart's this particularly dreary day. That a tragedy has occurred and that the world won't ever be the same again. The only evidence they see is a puddle of blood on the pavement and a broken man unable to look at anything else.