A/N: This is my first attempt at writing Sherlock fanfic, so I hope you like it. Just a quick warning: it's probably going to be quite feelsy. Sorry in advance. Oh, and it's an AU set just before the end of The Reichenbach Fall.
Lost
Beep. Beep. Beep. The heart monitor by the side of the bed emmitted its steady beat, and then turned into one long continuous noise. He was flatlining.
Doctors with drawn faces and sad eyes rushed into the room. Sherlock watched from outside as they processed in and knew immediately that there wasn't much hope. The tight-lipped grimaces, the slumped posture - all these were familiar to Sherlock Holmes. He should probably feel something, he realised. Hope for his friend perhaps, or maybe even sadness. But all Sherlock felt was a dull emptiness that lay within his very soul. Maybe this was what sorrow felt like. He wouldn't know.
It took ten minutes for the worst to be confirmed. John Watson was dead. His body was sent to Molly Hooper for a post-mortem, but the cause of death was determined swiftly. Multiple lacerations to the chest and legs and several broken bones causing internal bleeding after being hit by a car.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. John Watson, killed whilst running to the ship to buy some milk. Not a fitting end for such a man.
The hollow emptiness stayed with Sherlock for a long time. He spent many hours in the mortuary staring down at the still face and prone body of Dr. Watson. Two days after it had all blown up, Molly Hooper watched as Sherlock Holmes the high-functioning sociopath, the man who rejected sentiment, broke down and cried.
Molly wanted to run in and comfort him, but Greg put his hand on her shoulder.
"Leave him be," he murmured. "He won't want it."
She nodded and turned away, giving Sherlock some privacy for ten minutes.
Many times Sherlock had looked on as families clutched each other and cried over lost loved ones. He had scorned them, for death was inevitable and everbody knew that. It was nothing to cry over. Now he knew why they did it.
The tears slid slowly down his cheeks as he stared into the face of his best friend. No, not friend. John had, over the years, become so much more than a friend to Sherlock, although neither of them knew it. Saviour, perhaps? No, even that seemed to mild for what John was to him. Sherlock didn't quite know how to explain the emotions he felt every time he looked into John's beautiful eyes. John made Sherlock feel when he'd all but forgotten emotions for years.
"Thank you, John," he whispered. Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Sherlock wasn't alone in his grief. Many tears were shed at the funeral, at which Sherlock was conspicuously absent. Afterwards, Molly went round to Baker Street in search of him. She found him maniacally destroying anything in the flat that had ever belonged to John, including his chair. She beheld he scene with horror, before rushing over to stop him.
"Sherlock, stop! Sherlock please just stop it! Stop it NOW!"
He whirled round to face her and Molly felt a chill go through her very bones at the expression in his face. She took at sharp step back before collecting herself quickly.
"What are you doing, Sherlock?"
"What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're being a stupid, selfish, arrogant prat."
"John is dead. I have to do this."
"No you don't, Sherlock. This is madness. Stop it, we can help you get through this. We're your friends."
"No you are not!" He yelled in her face. "I don't have friends. GET OUT!"
"Sherlock..."
"OUT! GET OUT! I DON'T NEED YOU, I NEED TO BE ALONE!"
She gave him one last long look. "Fine," she said and left.
Sherlock watched her go, breathing heavily. When he heard the door slam he collapsed into John's chair - the only thing that had so far escaped Sherlock's wrath - and lay there, alone once more.
He didn't move in days, barely eating and never talking to anyone. What he had said to Molly had been true; he didn't have friends. Sherlock had only ever had one and now even that had been taken from him. He was lost without his blogger.
Days passed, and Sherlock was finally called to action by Moriarty's plans coming to their climax. On the roof of St. Bart's, Sherlock still didn't feel when the lives of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were threatened. The emptiness in him only shifted to make way for anger when Moriarty teased that John had already been taken care of.
Moriarty shot himself in the back of the head to prevent Sherlock from doing it for him. But even after that, even after he had considered each of his 13 options and selected the best, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to send Mycroft the word:
Lazarus.
He was lost without his blogger, and a life without John had come to be no life at all. Which is why, when forced to jump off the hospital roof, Sherlock didn't bother to fake it.
A/N: Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. Please tell me your thoughts and criticisms in a review; I love hearing what you guys think of my work! Thanks again. Bye!