The lace fell delicately in swirling white patterns. It was hypnotic to look at, and for a second John was gone, he was somewhere safe. The moment ended, and the sudden contrast between the securities of his mind and the blunt, harsh realities made him take in a soft breathe.
One year. Five months. 26 days. 13 hours. Not that he had been counting. It was just a constant in his mind, something he was always aware of. The time since his best friend had jumped off a roof right in front of his eyes.
Somehow he'd never been able to end his pain. He'd certainly come close to it, especially in the beginning. He'd pick up his gun and absently move his hair out of his eyes. He'd move a bullet from finger to finger. Sometimes it scared him how close had come to killing himself. But always, he'd get this feeling. Not now. Not now. Hold on for a little longer, just a little. And he'd put the gun down.
It surprised him who came to visit. There was Mrs. Hudson, of course, and there was Molly Hooper, who started crying halfway through, and there was Mycroft Holmes, who looked considerably thinner, and Lestrade, but there was also Sally and Anderson.
Sally put up a façade, still calling him a freak, but it was painfully obvious that she had been crying a little earlier. She could never manage a smile, or even a dismissive toss of her head. She seemed utterly lost and confused. She left quickly after she arrived, giving some excuse to leave.
Anderson was different. He didn't bother trying to hide it. His voice crack as he told John how much he admired Sherlock Holmes. It would appear the world's only consulting detective had had a secret admirer, when he was alive. Anderson told John about the first time he'd met Sherlock. He'd given the same praise that John had given him, but was instead rudely insulted. As a result of the constant torment, he'd slowly grow bitter and resorted to name calling as well, all while he was admiring the detective. The room seemed to drop ten degrees when he said that.
John was back with the police, working to solve cases. He didn't have Sherlock's raw skill, but he had picked up things, and every once in a while when he was along in their old flat, he'd have a sudden realization. Lestrade liked him, and said he was a valuable asset, and so he stayed. He stayed to take weeks on a case that would have taken Sherlock days. He stayed to remind everyone what it was like to carry a small trace of another human being in himself. And so he stayed.
Back at the flat, he stared at his piece of lace. What a beautiful piece of cloth, especially for a murder weapon. It was weird how often things were both beautiful and deadly.
A small breeze rustled the lace in his hands, revealing a small stain of crusted blood. Blood. The victim had been strangled; he had been found with multiple bruises around his neck, but no other wounds. That could only mean it was the blood of the attacker. All that was left to do was run a DNA test and see if it matched any on the record.
Once late at night John woke up to the faint sound of a violin playing, so quiet he could barely hear it, so quiet it could have easily been his imagination. He ran out of bed, hoping against all odds that it would be Sherlock come back. He saw nothing, but he was struck with a vivid image of Sherlock playing his violin by the window. He lost it then, and fell to his knees, crying all by himself in a flat that used to never be empty.
It was five weeks later that he made up his mind. Almost two years had passed, and he wasn't feeling any happier. He had tried, God knew how he had tried, but it was never any easier. Life just couldn't go on for him. So he picked a date and started quietly setting his affairs in order.
The day arrived, and all during work, he never spoke unless he had to. When he got to the flat he stood there a while, not moving. He absorbed all the detail, the detail he had never bothered to change, and then he picked up his gun.
His fingers were shaking, and a tear slipped down his cheek. He lifted it to his head. The familiar feeling came back, the one urging him to put down the gun, but he kept his resolve.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He choked on his words, the ones addressed to no one.
His finger tightened on the trigger ever so slightly.
And suddenly, the gun was out of his hands and in the hands of Sherlock.
Sherlock, standing right there in front of him.
John covered a gasp with his hands.
"You're alive! You're actually alive! Why- I mean, why didn't you come and see me?"
"I'm not alive, John." His voice was deep and resonant, and John was immediately aware of how much he had missed it. And then it registered in his mind what Sherlock said.
"Not alive? What do you mean?" Johns face was a mask of confusion.
"I mean I died John. That's what happens when you jump off a building. I'm not sure how I'm still here, but I can't leave the flat. I guess that would make me a ghost." Sherlock's face was expressionless, but his eyes were sad.
"You're dead then? Still? How is this even possible?" John's voice was tired and sad.
"I don't know. But look." Sherlock reached out and put his hand through a table. "A ghost. I hadn't been able to show myself now, but you were going to kill yourself…" His voice trailed off and he looked down. "I'm so sorry John. I didn't know it would cause you to suffer so much. And before, when you tried to kill yourself, I would whisper in your ear, begging you to stay. That seemed to work before, but this time- I- I just reacted. I didn't want you to die."
John looked at Sherlock for a small second, and then shook his head.
"If I die, then I'll be with you, right?"
"No, John, please don't. Please. I'll still be here." Sherlock never begged, but he was begging now.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you." And he grabbed the gun from Sherlock's hand and held it to his head.
"Please. Please John, don't do this." Sherlock had a horrible look on his face, one that was suitable for when your best friend was going to die in front of you, the same one that John had worn the night Sherlock had jumped.
"I'm sorry. But don't worry. I'll be with you soon, and we can catch up then. It'll be alright, Sherlock. It'll be alright." He smiled at Sherlock, and he pulled the trigger.
Sherlock couldn't breath as he watched John's body fall to the ground, loosing heat before it even hit.
"No…" It was a sort of wheezing, coughing, gasping for air sound that just barely made it past his throat. "No…"
And he waited. Sherlock waited for John, but he never came. He had wanted to leave life; he didn't have a reason to stay behind. Sherlock had wanted to live, to see and make sure that John was alive, and safe, and happy, and now he was stuck, never leaving the flat, living for an eternity. An eternity alone is more like two eternities.
After he had waited for John for several hours, he gave up. In a last gesture, he reached out to hold John's hand. Instead of meeting the cold flesh, his hand sank through to touch the floor. That was the breaking point. He laid down next to John's body and cried noiselessly.
He cried himself to sleep, and he slept there, next to the body of his best friend.
Several hours later he woke with a start.
"I love you too, John."
He had forgotten to tell him that.
Author's note: This is the first time I've done a Sherlock fic. Hmmm. If you're wondering, the title means quiet death, with the death referring more to murder than death from natural causes. Also it's up to you if you want to interpret this as being Johnlock or just super close friends. Because of course friends tell each other they love them, that's how it works. Although I as author interpret it to be Johnlock, but whatever you want :)