John pov

"Late. I was too late. Gone. He's gone. What am I supposed to do without him now?"

I thought to myself, sitting on the sofa with my head in my hands.

"How can I live with myself? Was it something I did? Was it something I said? Or was it what I didn't say? I never told him how I felt about him…"

I looked up and sighed.

"I can't do this… I know I promised him I wouldn't do this if something happened to him, but he wont know now will he? He's dead, he doesn't know anything now."

I thought, standing up and walking to the bathroom, stepping in and locking the door behind me.

Narrator pov

Two hours later Sherlock opened the door to their flat to find john was nowhere to be seen.

"John?"

he detective called out when he noticed a dark pool of something coming out from the bottom of the bathroom door. He ran over to the door and saw that the pool was blood. Sherlock banged on the door.

"JOHN!"

No response. He tried the doorknob but it didn't budge. He took a step back and kicked the door open only to find John lying on the white tiled floor now covered in blood.

"NO!"

He shouted and rushed to his side. John's wrists had been slit and a razor blade lying next to him.

"no no no no please no…"

Sherlock quickly unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and tried to stop any more blood from spilling but he was too late. He stood, bloody scarf in hand, and walked out of the flat and climbed the stairs to the roof. He stood on the very edge only enough to keep his balance.

"I'm sorry…"

He whispered to himself before leaning forward slightly. By the time the paramedics got there they were too late.