A/N: I do not own the genius that is BBC Sherlock. Nor will I ever, so unless that changes, there is no need for repeat disclaimers, is there? No.
Send a message to me if anyone wants a continuation of a certain period of time, or a preferred type. Even what one can be about, point of view, etc. I'm open to suggestions on most everything. Clearly, exemplification (4) is not much of a hit. This is a narration, FYI.
The shadows in 221B Baker Street were long, made darker by the oppressive sadness looming over the old Victorian-era home due to the loss of one of its occupants. It felt like it had only been hours since the man slumped into his patterned chair, the whole room duller without the insane presence of the flat's other occupant, head grasped in his hands as he remembered the event his mind couldn't move on from.
Across from St. Bart's was a man with gray-streaked sandy blonde hair still lightened from a long ago extended exposure to the Afghan sun, his light grey-blue eyes widening as he turned towards the roof of the medical building across the street. A thousand words seemed stuck in his throat as he watched the tall figure of a man he knew better than anyone, even perhaps the man himself with his self-proclaimed 'sociopath' title, speak into his phone, "Goodbye John," watching its descent in slow motion. He could only imagine the dark locks in disarray as the ever-changing shades of cobalt-gray would narrow while he stepped off the roof. His own feet seemed stuck in place, frozen in shock as the man he had always felt too proud to commit suicide, except occasionally on Danger Nights, began to fall, "SHERLOCK!". Time seemed to slow down as he lifted heavy feet to run across the street. He barely felt the bicyclist run into him, knocking him down, before he was up again. Already a crowd was gathering; a few in ill-fitting clothes that in the part of his brain Sherlock . . Sherlock had trained, recognizing them, while others were almost too calm in suits he had seen on Mycroft's people.A primal gut-wrenching scream of loss was jerked from somebody when he hit the ground with a loud, wet SMACK. Only when it felt knives were stabbing down his throat did he realize it was him making the noise as he finally got past the vultures staring at the fallen man's body, not doing a thing. So much blood . . Too much blood, pooled around the ink black curls, eyes staring unseeingly at him as he fell to his knees in it. He could feel it soaking through his trousers, leeching into beneath his skin, to where no matter how many times he washed it away, it'd never be clean again.
He reached out, mechanically, as he could feel himself separate from the situation like the soldier he was, to take his pulse. As he withdrew his hand, he could see crimson covering it; smell the sickly sweet scent of death that once identified is never forgotten, knowing the smell lingered and would cling to his clothes; already echoing in his ears was that horrid sound; he could taste the coppery tang in the air, prevalent as the everyday taste of London air became lost; the lack of pulse making the pounding of his own heart so much more painful.
He had seen death; as a soldier, as a doctor the slow-drawn and the sudden accidents - as the assistant to the World's Only Consulting Detective he'd seen nearly every strange manner it could occur. Even died for a short while, the scarred bullet hole in his shoulder proof; that emptiness was the only comparison at the idea that the man who'd given him purpose again could be gone.
The memory ended, suddenly stuttering to a stop as he would have begin to hear the shrill shriek of ambulance sirens, as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade would have pulled him away shell-shocked for only a second, before he'd begin to fight to get back to him, before DI Lestrade could repeat over and over to his deaf ears, "He's dead John.". His eyes were squeezed shut, trying and failing to come up with reasons Life After Sherlock - LAS - was worth it; his estranged alcoholic of sister, the kindly Mrs. Hudson crying in the floor below him. Draped over the back of his jacket, given to him by the depressed Molly when he'd gone to see the autopsy photos and collect his effects, the long blue scarf - nearly matching the color of his eyes - dropped on the seat. The fireplace still smoked slightly, his jumper, pants, and trousers burnt, yet the scent never faltered; it was like an infection, rotting away at him. He may have been his Heart, but he had been his purpose; Moriarty had won, his fall had shattered him, caused his life to go up in flames, a ghost of memory crackling in his ear, "I will burn the heart out of you, Sherlock".
There was almost an audible crack as his mind broke under the knowledge he could be dead. Like an old film, an image flickered to life next to the door, to the left of a yellow spray-paint smiley punctured by bullets, "John?". His head snapped up so quickly there might have been whiplash, dim eyes wide before disbelief settled on his face, in his whole defensive stance, "Sherlock . . ?". For a moment there was hope flickering in his eyes, crossing in large floor-eating strides. Faster than tired eyes could comprehend, John's right hook connected with Sherlock's cheek, throwing him back against the door, grasping white shirt lapels, "You arse!". Tears were gathering in John's eyes, held barely in check by the knowledge that Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the sentimentality, before smiling a bit brokenly, "That was a Bit-Not-Good there, faking your death in front of me. I'm glad you're alive. Cuppa while you explain how?". There was a smile curling the edge of Sherlock's lips, his eyes fond as he watched John move to make his go-to comfort, a cup of tea for both of them, "It's good to be back home John. I'd thought you'd at least come to the deduction I'd done something, not paralyzed by my death being a soldier.".