His broken body was sprawled on the pavement, dark red blood forming an angry puddle around him. No. He couldn't be dead. Sherlock couldn't be dead – it literally wasn't possible. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and only consulting detective. Not someone who died, who jumped off a building to plunge to his own demise! No!
"Let me through, please, I'm a doctor," he said, feeling dizzy and light-headed. But the people making a circle around the body simply pushed him back. Somebody yelled something about an ambulance on its way, but he didn't register it. The body in front of him was long gone.
John gasped for breath, pulling out of the flashback. It had been less than a month since his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, had jumped off the building. Less than a month. Such a long time, but so short. John was sitting on the couch in an old apartment, tears streaming down his cheek. He hadn't been able to return to the flat he had shared with…him.
"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock," he moaned in despair. "I just can't deal with all of this. Why did you have to kill yourself?"
John took a breath, and then began to sob. It was a horrible, broken sound, full of pain. The sobs wracked his small body – he hadn't been eating much, and had lost far too much weight. He'd lost at least fifteen pounds off his already lean frame. He couldn't deal with the pain anymore. He couldn't deal with the reporters that came to his door asking about Sherlock, with the people giving him looks when he went out to buy groceries. The reporters were the worst. Most often young interns, hoping to get a story that would make their name known. They would knock on his door, start saying how sorry they were for his loss, come in and have tea. They would sit down, say how they knew Sherlock, and then inconspicuously start asking him questions. They were fucking sick, he thought. John had learned to simply not answer the door these days, or just look through the peephole. He was half-expecting and fully-hoping that Molly or Lestrade or someone would come by, check up on him, but nobody did. He was completely and utterly alone.
John took a shaky breath and stood up. He walked into the kitchen, to the cabinet by the sink. He opened it, pulled out his gun, walked back to his chair, and sat back down. The gun was beautiful. It held so much power. The sleek black surface hid the lump of metal that could so easily end a life. He turned the gun over and over in his hands. When he pulled the trigger, in that less-than-a-second period of time, would he have second thoughts? Would Sherlock appear to welcome him, as many people who experienced near-death experiences had described? Would Sherlock welcome him to the afterlife with him? John could almost sense the man standing next to him, disapproving of his actions. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he whispered. He put the gun in his mouth.
And then John Watson pulled the trigger.