"Goodbye John." came the quavering voice from his mobile.
"No, Sherlock! NO!"
But the line had gone dead.
He watched, helpless as his best friend threw his phone aside and stepped closer to the edge.
He tried to call out again, to try to persuade him to stop, to think, to consider what he was doing, but the words died in his throat, coming out as a strangled sob.
Sherlock blinked tears out of his eyes, only for them to be replaced immediately, his vision blurring and swimming as he glanced once more over the edge.
"I'm so sorry John." He whispered and smiled gently, knowing, at least hoping that he would eventually be forgiven for what he was about to do.
Swallowing and squaring his shoulders, he jumped.
"No...Please God, no..." groaned the doctor wearily, feeling tears prick his eyes, hoping to high Heaven that he was dreaming.
The sickening crunch was more reality that he could argue with.
That pale, exotic, beautiful face smeared with his precious, vividly red blood. The dark curls violated and shining with the thick, sticky liquid oozing from his temple, the once bright and alert eyes now perpetually unfocused and dim.
He collapsed.
"No...No, NO!" screamed John, his eyes flying open and meeting the dark interior of his bedroom. Like a tide returning, all of the emotions of the past week came flooding back with terrible clarity, and his tears exploded with a heart-wrenching sob.
He heard his door creak open, and, for a split second he thought that it was Sherlock come to see if he was alright after another war flashback. He lifted his head from his hands and looked.
"Oh, John dear! Come here, love!" whispered Mrs. Hudson soothingly, sitting beside him.
He hiccupped and sobbed again.
"Oh, there there dear! I know...I know, it's hard..." she wrapped her arms around him and he couldn't help resting his head against her shoulder, his tears soaking into her dressing gown.
"...You know...s-sometimes I hate him...when I think what...what..." he couldn't carry on, it hurt too much to think.
"I know, what it's done to us all...but we can't help that now. We have to get on with our lives."
A new wave of sorrow hit him.
"I can't...I can't!"
"You have to, love."
"No...No. He's changed me forever..."
He was worse than he had been before he met S- him. He didn't go out unless he needed food. He didn't write his blog. He didn't read anything other than the newspapers. He didn't see or speak to anyone but Mrs. Hudson.
He just sat in his chair.
And visited his grave every single day.
He didn't know why, but he felt this strange hope burning somewhere in his heart that, maybe one day, he would go to the grave and he would be standing there.
Alive.
Answering his prayers.
In an awful, impossible way it kept him going from one day to the next. Ironically, he often argued with the gravestone as if its owner was actually there; he thought sadly that somewhere, he was laughing at him.