It happened in a moment. She turned to greet John when he got home. Her arm bumped the edge of the mug and sent it, tea and all, hurtling towards the floor. She caught a glimpse of the horror on John's face as it fell. He reached out for it but missed by mere inches. She winced as it shattered on the tile. "John, I'm-" He held up a hand to cut her off. She was confused by the barely contained rage on his face. "John?" She offered the questioned softly, timidly.
He didn't look at her. He couldn't. Sherlock's mug, the one thing he had kept of the man's in his new flat, was lying on the floor. Shattered, just like its owner. Seeing the mug falling had sent him back to that horrible day, watching his best friend plummet to the ground. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. "Sebastia," he tried to keep the angry quiver out of his voice, but he couldn't. "Why were you using that mug?"
She was thoroughly confused now. Why was he so angry about a cup? John wasn't overly sentimental, or at least not that she saw. "It was clean. John what is so important about it?"
John bent down to pick up a shard of the mug. "It-it was Sh-Sherlock's." The anger was gone, replaced with a sadness that seemed to shrink him down. Suddenly she understood.
"John, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
He shook his head, still avoiding her gaze. "I know." The room fell silent. Sebastia reached out to comfort him, but he pulled away.
"John," she tried again, but he shook his head.
"Not now."
He turned to walk away, but she slipped her hand into his, gently tugging him to a stop. "Please don't be angry with me, John."
He glanced over his shoulder, then turned to pull her to him. She curled against his chest, gathering a handful of his shirt. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying a single sob in the crook of her neck. He was falling, just like the mug, just like Sherlock. It was just a matter of time before he hit the ground, but for now, she was his parachute.