I remember it as clear as day, and I will probably continue to remember it every time I close my eyes to go to sleep at night. It'll haunt me for the rest of my life. The image of Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only Consulting Detective, and my dearest friend, falling to his untimely death from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.
I knelt on the cold damp pavement, my hands cradling my heavy head. There was a metallic stink to the air, an iron tang to it that was deeply unsettling. The smell of blood, and far too much of it. I recognised the smell immediately, it was something I remembered bitterly from my time in Afghanistan.
I could feel the water soaking into the knees of my trousers, but very little of me cared. I'd lost all ability to care for much apart from the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm me. I let my tears fall freely, not bothering to wipe them away, or taking a moment to feel ashamed of my emotional outburst.
I'd seen so many of my friends die before me during my time in the army in terrible ways. Death was not new to me, in fact it was more like an old friend, always hovering in the background.
But this was completely different. My constant companion over the past few years, was dead. The man who I admired and respected more than any man with a fancy military title before his name. The man I was proud to call my best friend. Just… gone in a moment.
The noise of life around me seemed distant, like I was hearing them through a very long tunnel. The yelling, the sirens, the sounds of traffic all sounded muffled to me. It felt like an eternity, kneeling there, falling into the depths of my own despair while the world went mad around me.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, gripping it hard as only a friend would. The noise around me sharpened, and it made me shudder a little as the brutality of police sirens hit my ears. Another hand reached under my arm, gripping my elbow, and I was pulled to my feet. I sagged against my aide, my own legs too shaky to work properly.
I looked round slowly to see the grim face of Greg Lastrade looking back at me. He looked strained, something in the way he looked at me said that he was struggling with this himself. "Come on, mate. Come on." he said softly.
I nodded jarringly, and I allowed him to lead me to the back of the ambulance. I sat down heavily, my eyes lingering on the asphalt of the road. I was unwilling to lift them, knowing that all I would be able to focus on would be the God-awful amount of blood on the pavement beside me.
Greg crouched down next to me gripping my shoulder tightly. It felt like he was the only thing holding me onto the face of the earth. He looked down at the ground, his eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown.
I felt the acidy tang of bile rise in my throat, and I fell forward onto the ground, heaving. There was nothing to throw up, so I just stayed there on all fours sobbing. There's no shame in admitting that I was heartbroken. And there is defiantly no shame in crying for a friend.
Greg helped me up into the back of the ambulance again, keeping a steady hand on my shoulder. His face was impassive, but I could see it in his eyes that this was effecting more than he could put into words. "John, what happened?" he asked me calmly. I took a shaky deep breath, but it caught in my throat. I shook my head, unable to say a word. I just closed my eyes, and rubbed my face with my hands, wiping away the tears from my face.
Greg shook his head, and blinked a few times letting out a long, low sigh. Then he took an incline of breath, and then nodded a little. "Okay, okay. Just… just get yourself together. It can wait." he said, a funny sort of emotional catch to his throat. I nodded at him grimly, and sank my head into my shaking hands.
I didn't see Sherlock again after that day. I didn't want to. He had been so full of life, such a joy to be with even though he was arrogant, and confusing… and so bloody annoying. I didn't want to see him lay on that cold steel table like countless others I had seen during my time with him. I didn't want to add that image to the one I already had of him splayed across the pavement in a pool of blood which had kept me awake for the past week.
I went to the morgue to pick up the death certificate, that was all I could do. Molly was so sweet, she was tearful as she handed over the certificate but she kept her face impassive. She flung her arms round me, hugging me tightly. It felt nice coming from someone who cared for Sherlock, it made me feel better.
She didn't say a word, she didn't need to. I didn't need the sympathy and she could see that. She just gave me an encouraging sort of smile, and walked through the double doors back into the morgue. I took a deep breath and turned away, feeling strangely lighter.
The funeral was a quiet affair, just a few of us turning out to pay our respects. Mycroft stood at a distance looking as impassive as ever, looking like he didn't really want to be here at all. I wondered if it had even connected with him, whether he realised that Sherlock was really dead. He just looked on with a slight downturn to his features. Yet strangely, for just a moment, I felt very glad he was Sherlock's brother.
Mrs Hudson was inconsolable, I stood beside her throughout the whole thing. I put my arm round her, and let her cry into the lapel of my jacket. She shook slightly under my touch, and I realised how like a mother she had been to Sherlock. She saw him wholeheartedly as a son, and nobody should have to bury a son.
I didn't quite know what to do with myself. It felt strange stood there, Mrs Hudson by my side, Mycroft hovering by the tree looking pensive, Greg and Molly stood opposite me their heads bowed low. It was like a strange, morbid little party. Like it was Christmas all over again. It felt mad.
I didn't want to believe that this was it, this was really happening. I still don't. Yet still there was a niggling feeling in the back of my head. Something that really doesn't sit right about all of this.
Maybe its just me trying to be hopeful. After all I've seen Sherlock do, the brilliant madness of it all, this seems too… boring for him. It's too mundane, too normal. It's not like Sherlock.