The shot rang out like a thunder clap. John stood there not really realizing what he had done until the body had fallen off the roof. A slight ringing in his ears, he went to look over the edge and saw the body, blood pooling, a spec two hundred metres below. What had he done?
John sat up sweating, the fan spinning above his head. Looking to his right, Mary looked up at him sleepily, her pregnant belly prominent. "Are you ok?" she asked in a sleepy voice, "yeah" John said, thinking about how she would react if he told her what was really bothering him, "just a bad dream". Getting up out of bed, John lumbered over to the lit door of the bathroom, saying to Mary as he went "I'm just going to splash some water onto my face". Standing in front of the sink, John looked into the mirror, his eyes made their way down to his recently shaved moustache. Sherlock had asked him to shave that, his best friend, the high functioning sociopath with the heart of a pacifist. Why had he lured him up there, his best friend, the one dead person out of the millions John had seen die, drowned in their own blood, who came back when he had asked him to.
Closing the bathroom door behind him, John walked back to his bed and got back in, Mary now snoring. As he placed his head back onto the pillow, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that this, his desolation of his best friend, would be the beginning of his own demise.
John woke up the next morning in a cold sweat. He had dreamt that he had Sherlock was screaming at him, "I TRUSTED YOU JOHN! I TRUSTED YOU!" Getting up, he went into the bathroom to relieve himself. It was then, as he faced the mirror that he felt the cold hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he was there, Sherlock looking into his eyes, those greenish hazel eyes penetrating his soul. They knew what he did, and they didn't even hate him for it. They were disappointed.
Turning around to look at him, John saw that Sherlock had disappeared. He must have imagined it, he must have, Sherlock couldn't be back. He walked back into the bedroom, opened the closet, and got dressed.
Sitting on the tube on his way to work, John couldn't shake the sadness in him that Sherlock was disappointed in him. He had always been the one to impress Sherlock, always it had been "well done John, you're learning". He got up just as the electronic voice on the street said "Marylebon station". He stepped out of the train car and walked up the stairs, onto Baker Street. It was at that moment that John felt a strange pull towards his old house, where he had once lived with Sherlock. 221B was the same as it always had been, it had its shiny black door with its brass numbering. He opened the door and walked up the stairs, just before he reached the door into the flat, a sudden coldness came over him, he then opened the door and walked in and there, in the armchair that he had always inhabited, was Sherlock.