Hey guys! This is my second fanfic, although this one is very different from my first. John is finding it difficult to deal with Sherlock's 'death'. Please rate & review! :)
John watched as Sherlock hung up the phone and threw it to the ground. John could only hear a single tone on his end. Sherlock spread his arms out to his sides, as if he was about to take flight. John watched in horror as Sherlock fell forwards off the roof of the hospital. Plummeting down, he looked as if he could soar up at any moment. John's view of Sherlock was blocked by a building, and John made his way across the road, towards the hospital. At that moment, he was hit by a bicycle, knocking him to the ground. He got back up and ran towards where Sherlock had fallen. As he turned a corner, he could see his best friend lying on the ground, face down. He tried not to cry as he bent down towards him. People were trying to keep him away, not understanding that he was his friend.
-X-
John was picked up from the funeral by his sister, Harry, who was staying in London for a while. He got in the car, put on his seatbelt, and Harry began to drive. John stared out of the window aimlessly. Watching the world go by. What was the point? There was nothing left for him in the world. No job. No friend. He would be staying at 221b Baker Street. But he wondered whether that was a good idea at all.
'Do you want to talk about it?' asked Harry.
John continued staring out of the window.
'John?'
'This is so pointless,' said John after a while.
'What is?' urged Harry.
'Everything. What is the point in living? I used to think that I had something to live for. Something worthwhile. But now even that's gone.'
'Don't say that,' said Harry, trying to be sympathetic.
John decided to stay silent for the rest of the car journey.
-X-
John walked up to the door. '221B' the little numbers and letter on the door said. He took out his key and, shakily, put it into the lock. He turned it, and opened the door. It was late, and he tried to be as silent as possible, as Mrs Hudson would probably be asleep in her flat. He walked up the seventeen steps to the flat, missing out the fifth one, which creaked. He unlocked the door to the flat and walked in slowly.
Looking around, he realised how much he missed Sherlock already. Seeing the letters held down with a dagger, Sherlock's violin, and the old skull on the mantelpiece only made him more emotional. A silent tear slid down his cheek.
He sat down on the couch and closed his eyes, trying not to think about it. It was no use. He started sobbing uncontrollably. He lay down on the couch clutching a cushion. Somewhere in the midst of all the tears, he finally fell asleep.
-X-
His dreams were no escape from the hell that was reality. He kept reliving the moment Sherlock admitted himself to be a fake and jumped off the building.
He woke up in a cold sweat. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock wasn't dead. And he most definitely wasn't a fake. Why was Sherlock playing this game? Sherlock dealt with other people's deaths. What was going to happen now that he wasn't here. John could do with talking to Sherlock. To ask him if it was possible it was fake. The whole suicide. Fake.
He could only hope.
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed that chapter. I hope to put the next one up in the next few days. Please rate & review!
