Left Behind

John didn't know what it was like to die.

He wondered this now, sitting on the street, ignoring the hands that were trying to help, the voices offering comforting words that meant nothing. It didn't matter what anyone said, or what anyone did.

Sherlock was dead.

And John was not.

John walked home, his thin jacket doing nothing to keep out the cold that was quickly coming on. The cold didn't bother him, he had a feeling he should get used to it.

He wondered what that would be like, snapping out of existence in a blink of an eye, your pains, regrets, losses...gone.

Nothing but blackness and numbness.

He could feel the sobs in the back of his throat, the tears threatening behind his eyes, but neither came, which hurt more than he possibly could have known.

How could he still be walking, looking to the world as though everything was normal-he felt like he was sinking, falling into his pain.

He eventually made it back into the flat-before he knew it, he was standing in the living room. He stumbled over to his chair, sank into it, and closed his eyes, trying to block out everything.

It didn't work.

###

"Detective Inspector, you can't take that, that's evidence." The young, tow headed officer insisted, reaching for the bundle in Lestrade's hands.

"Don't worry about it, Cooper, I've got it under control. Let go."

"With all due respect, sir, I can't allow this," Cooper replied, refusing to remove his hold.

"I am going to have to ask you again to let go," Lestrade said menacingly. "I am taking it, there is no reason to leave it in evidence."

"Why?"

"Because, there is someone who needs it more than we do, and if you don't let me take it, Cooper, I will make sure you never get another position in this department!" Lestrade threatened.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Cooper stared hard at him for a moment, then reluctantly released the bundle.

"Thank you." Lestrade said, and he left before someone else could question him.

###

John awoke to the doorbell ringing.

Shut up, Sherlock's voice sounded in his head.

It rang again, and John sighed and went to go answer it, opening the door to reveal Lestrade.

"Can I help you?" John said stiffly. The inspector was one of the last people John wanted to see right now, he accused Sherlock of being a fake, John wanted Lestrade to go away now.

Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I just came by, uh, to give you this. Thought you might want it." He awkwardly held out a black bundle.

Sherlock's coat.

Goodbye, John.

Sherlock!

The sight of it was like a knife in his chest, and it was all he could do to keep from gasping aloud. He reached out with unsteady hands, taking the coat from Lestrade. The feel of the coat's fabric in his hands was comforting and painful all at once.

"Thanks," John said curtly.

"You're welcome. Hey, uh, John, if there is anything you need..." He trailed off. "Anyways. Take care, okay?"

Then the inspector was gone, and John was alone.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, before moving back to his chair. He sat down heavily, looking over the coat, a thousand memories playing and replaying, one standing out above the rest.

If you were dying, if you had been murdered, what would you say?

Please, God, let me live.

John inhaled sharply, gripping onto the coat as if it was his lifeline.

"Please, God, let me die," John gasped, and a sob burst from his lips, and then the tears came, the first time he had allowed himself to cry since Sherlock jumped, his body shaking from the sudden, violent sobs, the words "let me die" coming again and again until he didn't even have the breath to speak anymore.