DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock
The day was gloomy. The sky was terribly grey and it was pouring. Yet John still found himself walking to the cemetery, a look of shock and pain evident on his face. He couldn't believe what had happened. He couldn't accept the fact that Sherlock did indeed fall from the rooftop at Bart's. It was all too much to take in.
John approached his best friend's grave. He stood there, staring at the pristine, black headstone. His best friend's name written on it in bold letters. John began to remember all the times he and Sherlock somehow managed to avoid death, all those close shaves. It was dangerous and risky and frightening. But the two flatmates stayed brave. Even in the worst and roughest of times. Through and through, John and Sherlock did not worry of the dangers and risks of the situation, but went along with the scene and did what they had to do.
Look where that got him, John thought. Sherlock is dead and I couldn't do anything about it. I should have gone after him, shouldn't have left him alone. It's all my fault. Tears started to form, and John was powerless in stopping them from rolling down his cheeks. All the memories he'd ever had with Sherlock flooded his mind, causing John to become very emotional. His knees gave out and he started to sob loudly. Each cry hurt his chest; his heart slowly being torn apart into millions of pieces.
"I'm sorry Sherlock!" John shouted. "I shouldn't have left you by yourself, I shouldn't have left your side at all!" John's sobbing became much harder. He gasped and choked on air. Soon, his tears dried, and he could finally talk again.
"I loved you Sherlock, I still do. And I can't help but think that your death was my fault," John paused and swallowed a large lump in his throat. "If you could only hear me now. I bet you would be trying to convince me that it wasn't my fault you died, but it is. I didn't follow you out the door that time and I should have. I could have kept you from stepping off that ledge on the roof, could have kept you safe. But I didn't and it's all my fault."
One last tear rolled down his cheek before John lifted himself off the ground. He sighed, turned around, and walked.
From the backside of Sherlock's headstone, a man wearing a long black coat and a mop of curls on his head sat there crying. His tears dripped from his chin onto the dirt beneath him. It was Sherlock himself, alive and well. He had heard everything John said from the very start. John's words broke his heart.
"John," Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking. "It wasn't your fault and it never will be." Sherlock wiped his wet face with a handkerchief before speaking once more.
"I love you too."