"Leave a note when?" I ask.
I already know the answer, but I don't want to think about it. Saying it out loud would just solidify the reality of it all.
I guess he doesn't want to say it either because he does not answer.
"Goodbye John." he says, throwing his phone to the floor.
I keep on telling myself he's joking. It's all a laugh, he won't jump, and we will go back to Baker Street to have tea and biscuits. I think like this until I see it happen.
"SHERLOCK!"
I don't believe it at first, it's not him, it can't be. But I know it is.
I run.
I push my way through the crowd, telling them I'm a doctor, forgetting they all are too.
My legs can't bear my weight anymore. Without realising I collapse next to his lifeless form.
I do not cry; I am too shocked to cry. I don't know how to react. I have seen so many people die, in the war, but this is all new. I thought I had become immune to such feelings, and I felt inhuman in doing so, but right now I wish for nothing more than that to be true.
I stay here next to him, begging for a miracle, for him to come back to life.
My world is collapsing around me and I have no means of preventing it. In such a short amount of time he has become my stability. Somebody I assumed would always be here but is gone in a blink of an eye.
I can't remember what life is like without Sherlock. What it is like with no body parts in the fridge, no shooting at half one in the morning, no kitchen table full of experiments. How do I go back to what I had before, living alone and a life without adventure? It isn't like I could ever just get another flatmate, they wouldn't be Sherlock.
