Post Reichenbach

John hadn't felt this helpless since he came back from the war. He sat
on the edge of Sher- no, he couldn't think about him as he squeezed
his eyes shut and tried to supress the ragged wail that escaped his
mouth. He sat on the edge of the bed, the very same bed that held not
a body but case files strewn across its surface just days ago, with
Lestrade peering over Sher- "Nooooooo!" John shrieked, like a wounded
animal. He smashed the bedroom door fully open, walked into the living
room, picked up a porcelain lamp and smashed it against the wall,
causing it to shatter into millions of sharp projectiles flying across
the room in all directions, scraping John's hands in the process.
"Come back Sherlock," John's voice lowered to a ragged sob, "Please."
John stood in the living room, in front of the fireplace, and let his
legs collapse to the floor, holding his head in his trembling cut
hands. "Please," John sobbed, "Please."