John kept on sending his friend texts, in the hopes that somehow he would still get them. He knew it was silly, but somehow, it kept him alive. The knowledge that regardless of what Sherlock said, it wasn't a trick. He saw his friend fall, and that was all there was to it. Sherlock still recieved every text, of course, but knew that any response from him would not be a good idea.
John got more desperate with every text, and it began to tear Sherlock up inside.
And the one time Sherlock forgot, and he was so desperate to reach out and save his friend that he forgot that he was meant to be dead, all he said was sorry.
Everything from that point on was broken inside John Watson, unknowing if he was the victim of his own madness, the cold indifference of the stranger who inevitably got sherlock's phone number, or possibly the return of his hero.
Is was always less theatrical, he though, it was no St. Barts roof and phone call, but it had to be done. And so he sat on the steps of 221B, gun in hand, with a note, saying "I never stopped believing" gripped tightly in his other hand, getting dampened with every passing second from the cold sweat that had broken out all over him, when he looked up, he expected to see Sherlock, that somehow, just for him, he wasn't dead. After all the times John had been there to save Sherlock, at just the right moment, never a second too late to save his friend, Sherlock miscalculated. Once, just one second too late, and that one mistake would haunt his entire life, forever, Just as the door swung open to 221B, the sound of the impact on the wall, was the sound of the shot, it wasn't fair, even in his brilliant mind, Sherlock couldn't undo the wrong he made.
