221B Baker Street was silent that morning so John was surprised to find Sherlock already awake as he entered the sitting room. Well, as awake as he ever looked, stretched out on the sofa, his fingers tented under his chin, clearly deep in thought. John briefly wondered about what but as quickly decided that he probably didn't really want to know.
"Morning, Sherlock! Tea?" John enquired as he rounded into the kitchen. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock's lack of either acknowledgement or reply but pulled 2 mugs out of the cupboards anyway, groaning at the jar of mysterious-looking "what was that?" that occupied the shelf next to the tea caddy.
The kettle boiled enthusiastically and John made up 2 teas, carrying Sherlock's through first as he debated breakfast. Toast, maybe? "Have you eaten yet?" he asked the detective, carefully placing the mug on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. John knew the answer, of course, but perhaps a gentle reminder might see the man accepting something of sustenance.
He glanced up at the detective's face for a reaction. Anything to show he was even listening and, seeing none, tutted and backed off. Clearly whatever had his attention was important. Probably planning the destruction of an unsuspecting body part or suchlike. Deciding he couldn't be bothered making breakfast anyway, John returned from the kitchen with his own tea and sat in his armchair, grabbing the newspaper which Mrs. Hudson had kindly already brought up.
Starting from the back, as he always did (the more interesting stories were usually well past the sensationalist front pages) he bypassed the sports, TV and lifestyle sections, hoping to find something he and Sherlock could look into.
He made a mental note of a couple of stories. Two colleagues missing from the same bank branch. Affair? Or something more sinister? Series of stolen exotic pets. Big business to some! A few possibly related murders/missing children. John winced. Not the kind of thing he enjoyed doing but certainly could be a possibility. Anything would be better than a bored detective, of course, and Mrs. Hudson (and her walls) would be grateful for anything to keep Sherlock from boredom!
He flicked another page closer to the front of the paper. A familiar face, Detective Inspector Lestrade's, looked back at him. "Lestrade", John thought. "What's he been up to?" Neither of them had heard from New Scotland Yard for a while and it was starting to feel like a personal rejection. He turned to address Sherlock but thought better of it. He gave a half-smile of resignation, noting that Sherlock had still neither acknowledged his presence nor touched his tea. Silence was clearly going to be the order of the day at 221B for now.
John flipped the paper so it was easier to read one-handed and took a long drink of his tea, resting the mug on the arm of the chair as he settled to read Greg's latest case news.
Then it hit him. It hit him like a freight train. His hold on the mug failed and it slipped to the floor. John stared almost blankly at it as the remaining tea seeped slowly through the rug and, suddenly, he was back outside. His heart racing as he watched helplessly. Tea morphed into blood as it spread out from his head. Sherlock, his detective, laid on the hard, grey pavement. Eyes blank. Cold. Lifeless.
The headline - "Suicide of fake genius"
"He's my friend", he heard himself say, unsure whether a memory of that moment or if, in the harsh silence of the flat, he had actually said it out loud.
Stifling a sob, he tore his eyes away from the mug, the tea, his Sherlock on that cold ground, to look across at the sofa. The empty sofa. No Sherlock. There was no Sherlock. There would never be Sherlock. No more. The silence suddenly made sense.
Only then did he hear a sound. A sound that could only have been caused by one Sherlock Holmes himself. It was the sound of John Watson's heart, breaking.