"...No. Alright, stop it now…"
"No! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move."
"…Alright…"
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do that for me?"
"Do what?"
"This phone call, it's…it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John."
"No. Don't-"
That was the last conversation John ever had with Sherlock. There was so much he wanted to say to him, there was so much he wanted to do with him. That was his best friend that was his…his reason for living on so many occasions. He didn't even get to say a proper goodbye to him. He had to watch, like all of the other bystanders. He had to watch the world's on Consulting Detective jump to his death from the roof of St. Barts. He tried to go to him, he tried to get one last look at him, and he was trying to confirm his death because in his mind, Sherlock wasn't dead. Sherlock Holmes doesn't die, not when there are so many crimes to solve, not when there's a chance to make another archenemy, not when John Watson was still breathing.
"He's my friend…please let me through, I'm a doctor…"
He was using that excuse again. He was using his profession as an excuse to see his best friend plastered on the cold, hard concrete. It was hazy, it was a hazy mess of doctors and civilians running to see the same thing he didn't want to. They pried his hand off of the body, and he couldn't fight them. He saw the blood and he couldn't fight them. They managed to get him away from the crowd and into the nearest taxi. They told the cabbie to send him to wherever he needed to be. Not wanting to go anywhere but not wanting to stay either, he gave up in defeat.
"Please…221B…Baker Street…"
The cabbie responded in a curt nod and they started to drive away. John couldn't help but watch as they carried his friend away from the crimson stain on the grey sidewalk and into the hospital. He thought he wouldn't have to witness this again.
"I've seen men die before- and good men, friends of mine. I thought I'd never sleep again…I'll sleep fine tonight."
"Quite right."
But he wasn't right was he? He did witness a friend of his die. He won't be able to sleep again. Not without Sherlock. Not without that mad man waltzing around the flat with his experiments, not without his violin playing at ungodly hours of the night, not without the many times he snuck into John's room to comfort him from nightmares, and not without him shooting the house down out of boredom.
"No, Sherlock…this is the one time you weren't right…I won't be okay, I won't…What's John Watson without his Sherlock Holmes?"
What was 221B without its resident? What is Mrs. Hudson without her "son"? What is Greg without his colleague? What was Mycroft without his little brother? What was anybody without him?
"Nobody…I'm nobody…"
That's what John was. He was one of the things that killed Sherlock, called him a machine, told him that he attracts danger wherever he goes, and said awful things to him when he needed him most. What kind of friend was that? Not a very good one. The doctor sank back into the seat of the cab and allowed the driver to take him to his home, his empty home.
When he returned he half expected Sherlock to be waiting at the door like a puppy eager for its owner to return.
"Do you understand now?"
John would have no idea what he's talking about.
"I was telling you about the case, John."
John would realize that he was talking to himself again. He didn't realize that he left the flat and thus his ramblings continued. John would roll his eyes and sigh.
"No Sherlock I have no clue as to what you're going on about because I wasn't here."
Then he would spend twenty minutes to the next half an hour explaining his deductions of the case again so John could form his own opinion on the matter. He laughed. Sherlock's mouth would run a mile a minute if no one stopped him or if he didn't stop to breathe. But that added on to his charm. John didn't know anyone else like Sherlock. He never would.
He sat in his chair, staring at the vacant one across from him. The one that should've had the other male seated in it, or huddled, depending on how he was feeling. John could count all the times he found Sherlock staring at him, watching him perform his hopelessly dull and pedestrian things. He would watch John type up their case on his blog and question him relentlessly.
"What did you name the case this time?"
"Why did you name it that?"
"Why must you type like that?"
"Are you done yet?"
"John can you stop and make some tea?"
"Are you listening anymore?"
John would answer them all. Sometimes he would ignore Sherlock because he wasn't in the mood to talk to him. He regrets those times he ever ignored Sherlock. He knows that Sherlock was ignored a lot and that sometimes he really wanted someone to listen to him, and that one person was John.
"That's the frailty of genius John; it needs an audience."
John closed his eyes and listened to the soft, baritone voice in his head. He nodded slowly.
"Yes Sherlock, you're right. You're always right."
John was his audience and that's all Sherlock needed.
Going to sleep was hard that night. He didn't like how quiet it was in the flat. There was once a time when John would pray for one night of silence in the flat, where he would welcome it. Where he wanted Sherlock to stop playing that violin and go to sleep like a normal person, now there was nothing he wanted more than to hear Sherlock's violin, and to have Sherlock playing it until three in the morning. Now he wanted the noise.
"Now what are you in the mood for tonight, John?"
John squeezed his eyes tighter so whatever tear that was fighting him to come out, wouldn't win.
"Anything you play tonight is fine, Sherlock."
And if he tried hard enough, he could hear the faint tune of Brahms' Lullaby playing in the distance.
It wasn't a few weeks after he died, John got a call. It was from Saint Barts. He almost wanted to let it go to voicemail. He didn't want anything to do with that place anymore. But he couldn't, he just couldn't. He prayed for a miracle and maybe this was it. Swiftly he picked up the phone and answered it.
"Hello?"
"Is this John Watson?"
John hesitated at first.
"Yes…yes this is he…"
"Are you free to come down to the hospital today?"
Brows furrowed.
"For what reason?"
"Mycroft Holmes asked for you. He said that it was something about his brother."
"Brother?"
"That's what he told us, and that he would like for you to come."
What is this? What could Mycroft possibly be talking about? He had to find out.
"Uh, yes, I'll be there shortly."
"Excellent, see you soon Mr. Watson."
The woman hung up. John stared at his phone for a few more minutes. This couldn't be…
Not wasting another moment, he grabbed his coat and walked out of the door.