John rolled over in his bed. He didn't want to open his eyes, not yet while he was so comfortable. Laying there could hear the noise of the city and feel the warm light of day enveloping him. Opening an eye he noticed the sunlight streaming in and shining upon the dust motes that dancing through the air. What time was it? He must have slept in quite a bit, for he certainly didn't feel tired, though he hadn't slept well. He had had a nightmare… of what he couldn't remember. But he felt good, awake, and well rested. He was surprised to notice that his leg and shoulder were not pained, despite the fact he hadn't taken any medication. After noting the time to be past noon he decided he needed to get up and start the day. He was surprised Sherlock hadn't woken him up yet with a bang of an experiment or his enthusiasm for a new case. He came down the stairs and spotted Sherlock curled up in his own maroon chair. "Morning." He said as he moved to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock didn't reply. John could only see the back of his head and mop of curls falling off the armrest where his head lay. He couldn't see his face, but he guessed he was in one of his moods again.
After starting the tea, he went to the sitting room, to find his laptop. He was going to start the search for available cases that could be stimulating for Sherlock, when he noticed Sherlock was shaking.
He had been sitting there, silently crying. His tear streaked face, was twisted in a look of complete sorrow. His red eyes were ringed with dark bags, he looked like he hadn't slept and had spent all night in tears. "Sherlock! What's wrong?" John was unsure what to do, he had never seen Sherlock so unwell. Sherlock seemed to be looking through him, lost in thought. "Sherlock…" John said slightly calmer, kneeling down and wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's wrist. "What happened?" At John's touch Sherlock started to sob. John at loss of what to do reached around him with his other arm to give him a hug as best he could with Sherlock being at such an awkward angle. John tried to make calming sounds as he rubbed Sherlock's back soothingly.
"John." Sherlock croaked, his voice small and hoarse. If John had not been so close to him, he would not have heard.
"It's okay. It's okay. I'm here."
Suddenly Sherlock sat up, with a more determined look on his tear stricken face. Sherlock still wouldn't look at him. Maybe he was embarrassed that John had seen him so vulnerable, as he nearly ran to the loo. John shouted after him though, "Sherlock wait! Please tell what is going on." Sherlock's reply was a slammed door. Soon after John could heard the spray of the shower. It unnerved him though, and he made the decision to make Sherlock talk to him once he was out of the shower. What would have caused him to be so upset? Maybe he should call Mycroft… but he knew, considering the brothers' relationship, things could only be made worse. When Sherlock returned he had dressed in fresh clothes and moved to fold himself in his Belstaff. Looking at his face the average person wouldn't have realized he had been up through the night crying. Sherlock had carefully arranged his face into a mask, to hide both his exhaustion and distress. Now John watched as he sent text and adjusted his scarf. "Sherlock, please talk to me. Where are you going?"
Sherlock looked up. John thought he might answer, but then Sherlock's phone started to ring. He looked like he loathed to answer it, but eventually after a few rings he did. "I'm fine." - "Yes, I'm sure." - "I'm on my way to the morgue." and with that he closed his phone without a goodbye, he made his way quickly down stairs and out the door.
John followed him. He had to follow him. He did want to stop and ask Mrs. Hudson if she knew what had Sherlock so upset but he didn't think Sherlock would wait for him. Outside the weather was surprisingly warm and many people about enjoying it. Sherlock quickly caught a cab, but didn't scoot over all the way which made it a bit awkward for John to get in. "Bart's Hospital on West Smithfield," Sherlock voiced then they were off. John didn't say anything. It was obvious Sherlock didn't want to talk. John hoped once they got to the morgue he would get a better idea what was going on. Did Sherlock have a case he hadn't told John about? Did this have anything to do with Moriarty's message? Did Sherlock still have to face repercussions after shooting Magnussen? John hadn't been at the flat all too much lately, had he missed something? He would sometimes spend a night or two there after a row with Mary, which were more frequent than he cared to admit. Had he let his own problems blind him from what was going on in the life of his best friend? His internally questioning ended as they arrived at Bart's. Sherlock tossed some money towards the driver and John had to quickly exit the cab to get out of Sherlock's way.
John followed a step behind him as they walked through these familiar halls to the morgue. To him it seemed there was more people than usual wondering about, more than one looked at him in interest. John couldn't help but wonder about them, but soon Molly appear out amongst them. It was clear she had also been crying, her eyes still puffy and lip quivering. She rushed towards them and wrapped Sherlock in a hug. "Oh Sherlock," she said with a hiccup. "I'm so sorry."
John watched as Sherlock with a blank face attempted to return the hug placing one hand on Molly's shoulder. Sherlock cleared his throat and Molly stepped back to look at him with sad eyes. "Um… yes," Sherlock seemed at loss at what to say.
"He's…" Molly gestured to the room. "If you need anything... anything at all, please let me know. I'll just be out here." Molly then turned to hide the tears that were soon to fall.
Sherlock looked to the room, his face flickering with emotions, anguish, pain, then resting on fear. John didn't know what to do his mouth had gone dry, he didn't understand. Sherlock opened the door and John felt like he was pulled through along with him. The smelled of death filled his nose, suffocating him. Death seemed to cling every surface, as it hung in the air. It pulled at John as well forwards toward Sherlock and at the same time away from this room, like it was trying to tear him up. John felt terrible. He stayed behind Sherlock as they walked to the table that contained the body. He didn't know why but as he neared the cold slab his stomach filled with dread. He felt the need to turn around and run from this wretched place, but he couldn't. Sherlock was here. Sherlock needed him, they needed each other. He sucked in a deep breath still not comprehending what he was seeing. What he saw couldn't be. John saw himself lying there in this room of death. It was himself that was filling the air with the foul odor and sucking the air from the room. He was dead.
He couldn't take his eyes away. There was a gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be. This couldn't be happening. He watched as Sherlock picked up his cold hand. The way he held it reminded him of another time, another body. Actually this reminded him of the first body and the woman in pink, he thought of how Sherlock looked at her hand a deduced so much; everything from her occupation to the state of her marriage. He wondered what Sherlock saw now. What he was deducing. He watched Sherlock as he shakily lifted his hand for closer inspection and gently pressed his lip to his knuckles, giving him a soft kiss. How John wished he could feel those lips now. How he wished he could feel anything but the overwhelming sadness that claimed his heart and stole it away. Sherlock carefully set his hand down and swept his hair on his forehead, whispered "My John," Before turning and swiftly leaving the room.
John stayed behind, now sitting on the cold floor next to his body, letting the death and darkness take over.