Sherlock sat down on the uncomfortable sofa in the coffee shop. As usual he'd ordered the extremely unpleasant excuse for tea they sold here.
He'd sat here every day he hadn't been chasing Moriarty's men.
John walked past every morning on the opposite side of the road to get a taxi to work.
His limp had returned, Sherlock had noticed regretfully on the first day he'd seen John since that day on top of St Bart's. In fact it was even worse than it had been when they'd first met. Every step looked agonising and Sherlock's heart ached as he watched his friend struggle down the street each morning. He struggled to push down his normally impeccably contained emotions and not just run from the coffee shop and tell John that he was alive. But as much as it almost killed him, it was the only connection to his only friend he had left and he was determined to cling to it.
John had started to limp into view again. His progress was slow as usual.
Sherlock took a deep breath. He couldn't stand just watching John any more. Even if Moran was still out there he couldn't stay hidden for any longer. He stood up, abandoning his drink and walking outside quickly, staying in the doorway to avoid John seeing him until he was ready.
John stepped towards the edge of the curb and Sherlock saw the van rushing down the road.
John didn't. He was focused on his own little thoughts. He started to limp out into the road, straight into the path of the van, still not noticing.
Sherlock leapt over a car and ran into the road.
"John!"
John turned and his jaw dropped. "Sher..." He was cut off as the van hit him.
Sherlock sprinted over to where his friend had been thrown and knelt down on the rough ground.
"John?"
The doctor's eyes flickered open. He tried to speak but his mouth opened and closed without a sound, a thin trail of blood leaking from the corner and trickling onto the tarmac. More blood poured from a wound on his head. There were cuts all over his body, crimson spots leaking through his ridiculous jumper and old jeans. Fractured skull, broken leg bent at an impossible angle, some compound fractures in his ribs judging by the amount of blood. Probable internal haemorrhaging. Fuck. Sherlock swallowed bile in the back of his throat.
"John..." Sherlock whispered. "John, stay with me."
John's dark eyes flickered. "Sherlock..." He managed.
"Don't speak."
"Two years, Sherlock." He murmured, ignoring the detective's instruction. "Two fucking years."
Sherlock clamped his hands around John's smaller, rapidly paling ones. "I'm sorry."
"I swear... I'll bloody kill you..." He smiled between shaking, uneven breaths. Good old John, always keeping his sense of humour. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to smile. He could hear ambulances in the distance but he didn't even know if they were for John. It would be too late, regardless. John knew it too. The doctor's eyes started to blur with tears.
"Don't go" Sherlock whispered helplessly, any facade of calm dissipating.
John squeezed his hands weakly. "Sherlock... I..."
"What?"
"I love you."
The self confessed sociopath blinked hard, screwing his eyes shut to push back the tears. He wouldn't give in to that. "I love you too."
"Just..." He trailed off. "Just don't forget me, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock didn't say a word. He could never forget this man in front of him, even if he tried. He leant forward and kissed John's bloodstained lips gently, feeling the hands clasped in his go limp as he straightened up again.
John Watson, the only one who'd ever come close to understanding the world's only consulting detective, the only one who'd ever even really seen him as human, was gone.
AN: SorrySorrySorrySorrySorrySorry.
This is literally the angstiest thing I have ever written. I apologise profusely again. (The ending kind of sucks... Sorry.)