"Goodbye John…"
The small figure on the rooftop hung up with an audible gulp of unsteady breath. He wouldn't… A mobile phone landed with a muffled clatter on the rooftop behind him. Time slowed to an agonizing crawl. No.
John felt himself screaming, but he couldn't hear anything but his heart pounding.
Arms spread almost casually, like hopping down from a short stair, Sherlock Holmes stepped off the ledge. His coat fluttered around him for a moment. John sprinted forward, shouting… something, he couldn't recall a moment later what it was.
The thump of a lanky body hitting the pavement. God it was awful. Even over the ringing in his ears, the ache in his head, he heard it.
With a sob, John Watson shot up in bed, the thin blue fabric of Sherlock's bathrobe clutched in his fingers like a lifeline, his heart pounding hard in his chest. A hand raised automatically to his mouth, trying to stifle the wracking sobs that threatened to erupt. He couldn't wake Mrs. Hudson again. She would try to comfort him and he just couldn't bear the thought.
He noted, distantly, that his knuckles had gone white and reluctantly loosened his grip on the robe. A moment later, he reflexively tightened it again. He had barely let go of it since the funeral.
Sherlock's funeral-
"Oh god…" it pushed him back over the edge, and he buried his face in the worn fabric, feeling hot tears streaking down his cheeks. "I.. I can't-" He struggled to calm himself, even out his straggled breathing. Not working.
He marshaled himself as best he could. With an effort he tried to put the reassuring wall of his military training between himself and his emotions. "Can't… I can't…." He tried taking deep steady breaths but that only made him cough.
"Sod this." He heaved himself heavily out of bed. Sleep was a luxury since that day, and more often than not left him more exhausted than he'd been when he laid down. The tightness in his chest threatened to overwhelm him again.
"Tea." It was stupid, but a hot cup of tea often helped on nights like this. Something familiar and comforting. The mindless preparation, the routine. It was something Sherlock had never really been a part of, and it let him have a few blessed minutes of peace from his thoughts.
Fetch a mug. Find the tea. Who the hell bought pomegranate-jasmine of all things?! Focus. Fill the kettle. Fetch the tea-bag. Boil the water. Put the bag in the mug. No sense making a whole pot of the stuff now... NO. FOCUS. Bad idea…
He watched the reddish tea infusion begin to swirl out across the surface of the water, a dark scarlet, like the blood flowing over the pavement outside St. Bart's-
With a strangled growl, he flung the mug away from him, watching with a savage satisfaction as it shattered in the sink, filling it with ceramic shards and sludgy red tea concentrate. The teabag slowly oozed towards the drain, pulling several sharp looking bits of ceramic with it. Swearing under his breath, he moved to clean up the aftermath, but found he couldn't bring himself to touch it. The images in his head were replaying over and over again with vicious, fresh intensity, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. Somewhere downstairs he distantly registered the sound of Mrs. Hudson stirring. Her nervous footsteps crossed to her bedroom door, but she seemed to think better of it and return to bed. She murmured something but didn't get up again.
Alone in the flat he'd once shared with his unexpected friend, John sank to the floor, huddling into himself, trying to shut it out. His face pressed into the cold kitchen tile as he shook, curled into a ball, choking on his own sobs. Sherlock fell in front of his eyes, again and again, no matter how tightly he squeezed them shut. The sound, the blood… the vacant grey eyes staring unseeing up at the sky.
He'd seen war, shooting, explosions... He thought he was hardened to death by now. He'd buried friends before. Somehow, this was worse. Harder. He didn't know why.
The sun rose slowly into a grey, rainy morning to find him still there, a sheen of cold clammy sweat clinging to his skin, Sherlock's robe still clutched desperately in his hands, face pressed to the floor.