A/N: From a thing (or two) I found on Pinterest. Will make you cry.

Sherlock was dead, Sherlock was dead, Sherlock was—

John burst into tears and buried his head in his hands. He pulled his legs tighter against himself as the shattering mantra repeated in his head.

He had seen war and death. He had seen the soldiers of his unit get blasted into pieces in front of him. He had seen hundreds of thousands of people die, and had taken care of hundreds of thousands of people who were injured. He had heard hundreds of stories, of the broken soldiers they sent to him, the ones who had lost all hope. His hands had been stained red so many times he had forgotten what they looked like when they weren't covered in blood.

But this—this was worse. Worse than all of it. It shattered his heart, his mind, like nothing from the war ever had. And he didn't think he could recover from this.

Anderson glanced over at John, leaning against the brick wall, head in his hands and knees pulled tight against him. The shadow of Sherlock's coat surrounded him.

He went over to Lestrade, who turned away from a couple of coppers and watched John.

Before Anderson could speak, Lestrade cut him off.

"Let him have the coat, Anderson."

He objected immediately. "But, Detective Inspector, it can be used as evid—"

"He's been through enough, Anderson," he replied, his voice tired. He turned away from Anderson, who glared at his back, before Lestrade sighed and walked to a bench to sit down.

Mycroft stood, watching John. He hadn't really cared for that man that much, but he tolerated his sass for Sherlock, who he knew couldn't live without John.

This had always been Mycroft's greatest fear: Sherlock dying. And this time, it was true. There was no rescue plan this time, no complex plan to save him.

And that hurt him, as Mycroft stood there feeling like he was going to vomit at any moment. His cheeks had taken on a greenish tinge and he struggled to keep his dinner down. Mycroft hated emotion—it was weak and impaired his thinking—and he fought it as hard as possible, but that didn't help his broken heart.

John raised his head and thunked it against the brick wall. He pulled Sherlock's coat tighter around him, feeling its warmth and the slight nutmeg smell on it that he had always associated with Sherlock. The collar chafed at his neck, but he didn't care. He didn't really care about anything right now-not the bright red lights of the ambulance flashing in the corner of his eye, not Mycroft standing off to the side, his eyes on him, not Lestrade sitting on a bench, rubbing his face and wondering how the world could have ever gone so wrong, and especially not Anderson, who was pretending he didn't care.

Afghanistan or Iraq?

Afghanistan, John thought, it was Afghanistan, but nothing could prepare me for this, Sherlock. Why did you have to leave me alone like this? I thought… I thought friends protect people. You were always so invincible. Risking yourself all the time—drugs; falling from a rooftop, God, what were you thinking; and with your sister…

John closed his eyes. Sherlock's voice was in his ears; his deep brown hair and rare, genuine smile flashed beneath his eyelids. He started crying again, shoulders shaking gently, hands coming up to cover his face again as his head bowed yet again to rest on his knees.

You know, you always acted like you didn't care, but I think that you did care about a few things and, of those few things, out of all of us…

You're the one that cared the most.

John turned the key in the lock. He slowly, tiredly pulled it out and pushed the door open.

He was at Mycroft's house. He wanted to plan a funeral, and from what he had seen of him, Mycroft wasn't going to have the sentimentality to do it. So he was going to do it himself and hopefully get the funds of a government official while at it.

He had found the key underneath the doormat after no one had answered, but John knew that Mycroft was home. If he wasn't home, then that was that and John would go home to drink himself to sleep. Then he'd wake up with a huge headache and probably never get around to the funeral.

Who knew what would happen. John was barely hanging on to the meaning of life—he was tempted to join Sherlock in the afterlife.

He walked through the central hallway and emerged into a spacious, simplistic kitchen. There, he found Mycroft leaning over the counter, an almost-finished bottle of beer in one hand and a greenish tinge to his face.

John's natural response with Mycroft had always been sass, and that hadn't changed. So he sassed him, but his voice was tired and his heart wasn't really in it.

"'Caring isn't an advantage,'" he recited. It was practically Mycroft's motto now, he had said it so many times.

Mycroft took a long drink from the bottle. "It's not voluntary either."

John conceded to that. He walked to the fridge, opened it, and grabbed two more bottles. He gave one to Mycroft and took one for himself, uncorked the top, and joined Mycroft in drinking away his grief.