I don't have friends
What I thought was a dream
An illusion
Was as real as it seemed
A privilege
When I wanted to tell you
I made a mistake
I walked away
-Gomenassai by t.A.T.u
"I don't have friends. I've only got the one."
These words echoed in Sherlock's head as he traipsed towards 221b Baker Street. He'd just received the all clear text from Mycroft.
The last problem has been resolved
Go home little brother. –MH
Sherlock was ecstatic. Three long years had passed. His only friends thought him dead. Greg Lestrade, the kind policeman who was an endless source of entertainment for Sherlock, with his cases and puzzles. Mrs. Hudson, the ever cheerful landlady that Sherlock adored, and who he had actually thrown an American agent out the second story window for when the idiot had hurt her. And John Watson. His best friend, his only true friend. He was going to get to see them all.
He was looking forward to Mrs. Hudson's sobs of happiness and smothering hugs. The look on Lestrade's face would be priceless when Sherlock would turn up at the station asking if he had a case that needed solving. John would probably be a little less enthusiastic. Sherlock had watched them all when he was 'dead'. But he'd watched John the most. And based off of his observations, John would not take Sherlock's sudden reappearance with complete happiness. John had visited his 'grave' more often than the others and his anger with Sherlock was understandable. But now…Sherlock couldn't stop grinning. He was going to see John. And that was all that mattered. Mrs. Hudson was out shopping so she wouldn't be back for a bit. Enough time for Sherlock to apologize and explain to John why he had faked his own death, and then disappeared for three years.
Standing on the front stoop, Sherlock's eyes scanned the familiar door for any changes. There was a slight scratch on the door knob. It was old though, John would have delt with the person if they'd been an intruder. Slipping the key to the door from around his neck, where it had rested against his heart for so very long, he opened it and stepped in the foyer of 221b. He was home.
But something was wrong. John should be home. There was always some sound in the flat, even when no one was moving. He couldn't hear anything. Something was very wrong. Treading carefully on the stairs so they wouldn't let out the familiar creak, Sherlock went up to the flat. Taking a deep breath, he opened that door as well and breathed in the smell of home. Nothing had changed. Chemicals from his experiments still on the table, the still slightly smoldering smell of bullet smoke emanating from the holes on the massive golden smiley face Sherlock had once painted on the green and white patterned wall for target practice, a tinge of the mandarin scent of John's shampoo, and the faint smell of blood. All was right. Wait. Blood.
Sherlock's eyes flew open, his reveling giving into a horrid realization. Racing through the rooms, he shouted for his flat mate. And then he found him. The army doctor, the stubborn man, the kind hearted helper, and the loyal, steadfast John Watson was lying on the pink carpet with a deep splatter of blood covering his red button up shirt. His usually kind face was contorted with pain.
"John!" Sherlock was at his friend's side immediately. "John, what happened? Tell me what to do!"
The blood on John's chest was dribbling from the man's mouth, his usually olive toned skin shining with streaks of scarlet. He began to cough, more blood spewing from his throat.
"Sher-Sherlock?" The man managed to gasp, astonishment in his weak voice. "But your-your de-dead." He choked the last sentence off as he gave into another fit of bloody coughs.
"John, tell me what to do." Sherlock was beginning to get frantic. The blood wouldn't stop, and John's cough wouldn't either.
"Sniper. Stupid, didn't see it coming." John moaned pressing the sharp wound that was dying the rosy carpet a deep red. Sherlock reached for the phone, but couldn't find it. He reached for his cell, keeping his hands on John's wounds, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. John just shook his head.
"Too late Sherlock."
"What?"
"I'm a doctor; I know when to give up. I know when a patient is beyond help. You're always observing aren't you? Feel my pulse, look at my pupils. Then tell me that I'm not already dying."
"You are NOT going to die. Not now, not here." Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth desperately dialing 999. "I've gone through way too much for you to die on me now."
"Hello, 999 what's your emergency?" A voice called politely through the phone.
"A man's been shot, 221b Baker Street second-"Sherlock's voice faded as he realized John's eyes were closed. He felt frantically for a pulse.
"Hello?" The operator questioned. But Sherlock was otherwise occupied.
"Come on John, wake up. Wake up you bloody idiot. Come one, John please!" Sherlock shook his friend. No response. Sherlock dropped his cellphone, panic setting in. "John, seriously, this isn't funny, open your eyes! Come on John, come on please!" His friend didn't so much as twitch a finger. The body was limp, heavy. Sherlock simply sat and stared at it a moment. Then, he began to shake his friend vigorously.
He bent over the shape, tears starting to fall. "Wake up John, please just wake up." He groaned. "Wake up." But John Watson would never wake up. He would never wake again.
The funeral was torture. Sherlock stood in the shadows, only noticed by two people, and they spoke nothing. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the stiff corpse of his best friend; the bloody soldier, always looking for war but never finding one, then making his own by joining Sherlock and his battle against crime. And then he paid for it in the way most soldiers do.
Sherlock didn't bother stopping the tears that fell down his face now. His John, his blogger, his friend was gone. He wasn't going to wake up; laughing at Sherlock wondering how such an experienced detective could fall for a simple trick like that. He wasn't going to slip out of the coffin and punch Sherlock for all the pain he'd caused, and then hug him for coming back. Because while Sherlock may have returned, he hadn't come back in time. John was dead. No matter how Sherlock looked at it, the facts in his head were beating the denial. John couldn't be dead, yet there he was, lying in the gray coffin with military medals on top. John Watson was dead. And it was his fault. Sherlock had not made it in time. And now, he had no friends.
He didn't care that he almost fell to the pavement that he hadn't realized he'd been walking on. Only that Mycroft was there to catch him when he burst into moans of agony, and that Molly Hooper was there, stroking his thick curls soothingly while her own tears streamed down her cheeks.
And now he was right. He didn't have friends. Not anymore. He would never have another friend. Only just the one.
Gomenassai for everything
Gomenassai, I know I let you down
Gomenassai til the end
I never needed a friend
Like I do now.
Gomenassai By: t.A.T.u