John wandered around in a daze, still unable to believe that Sherlock could have been torn from him in such a horrible, vicious way. Sherlock, the man who had had more near-death experiences than John could count on both hands, lying dead in a pool of his own blood.
Lestrade and his team had ruled out suicide almost immediately, what with there not being a knife anywhere near Sherlock, and the the bruise forming on his head. Murder, then, Lestrade had told John grimly as Donovan began to set the yellow tape around the building. Sherlock had been murdered.
And John blamed himself. If he hadn't stormed out on Sherlock, if he had stayed and spoken to him, protected him...the unknown assailant would never have gotten ahold of his friend. Sherlock would still be alive. Another sob was torn from John's throat at that thought. He may not have held the knife, but he had as good as killed Sherlock himself. It was all his fault. London had lost one of it's greatest protectors, and John had lost his best friend. And if he hadn't been so oversensitive, none of this would have happened.
Lestrade was exchanging words with his team, taking down notes and remaining stoic and calm. John didn't know how he pulled it off, having known Sherlock for years. Clinically detached, his mind supplied him, like you should be. He shouldn't be moping, he told himself, he should be out there, hunting down Sherlock's killer. It was what the detective would have wanted. Always itching for a mystery, hell, he'd be asking why John was crying.
Followed by an exchange about sentiment and timing, and John rolling his eyes about the blatant insensitivity of his friend, or maybe running off for a good sulk. Then Sherlock would sorta-kinda apologize, and attempt to make John some tea. It would be cold, and John would have to pour it down the sink to avoid risking his life (seeing as one time Sherlock mixed the tea leaves with acid by accident, somehow) but it would still be nice to know Sherlock cared.
He did care...had cared–god, he was going to have to start referring to Sherlock in the past tense. Underneath all the grandeur and coldness, a part of him had genuinely cared for John. The look of fear and confusion in Sherlock's eyes at the pool–this is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?–him frantically yelling to the CIA agents that no, he didn't know the code, showed that.
And John didn't miss him, not really. He knew that later, when he was away from the flashing lights and yellow tape and the cold reminder that his friend was lying a floor away, dead, the full implications of what he had lost would hit him, and the tears would flow even more freely. But right now was a strange mixture of grief, confusion, and the persistent thought that Sherlock was just behind him, ready to swoop in amongst the Yarders and explain to them exactly what was going on. It felt like he was being hit in the gut repeatedly by the awful truth, he's not coming home, you'll never hear that voice again, he's gone, you're never getting him back.
It hurt. God, it hurt. John clutched the orange woolen blanket–I'm in shock, look I've got a blanket!–tighter around himself and watched as the black, completely conspicuous car drove up next to the ambulance. First Anthea and then Mycroft climbed out, the latter his usual calm and composed self. And that would have set John's teeth on edge except he saw the small signs. He saw Anthea's hand rest briefly on her employer's shoulder, a small gesture of comfort and support, saw the weariness and pain flicker in Mycroft's eyes. The man was grieving just as much, and maybe even more, than John was. He just wasn't nearly as open with his emotions.
"My brother...?" Mycroft asks John, trailing off, creating an unspoken please, dear god, tell me my sources were wrong. Tell me that Sherlock's still alive.
John cannot say the cold, unfeeling word out loud. Dead. So ugly. How was it that a simple, four-letter word was capable of causing so much pain? Too much pain for John to deal with right now. So instead, he takes the coward's way out.
"I'm sorry."
Mycroft nodded shortly and climbed back into the car, not stopping to speak to Lestrade, or weasel his way into the house to see his baby brother lying cold and stiff on the floor. No, he just wanted to confirm what he already knew. If he was anything like Sherlock, he was returning home to analyze and reanalyze the CCTV footage of all the cameras ten miles from here, not sleeping or eating until he found the identity of Sherlock's killer.
The bastard won't even walk free for twenty-four hours, thought John as Lestrade gently tells him to leave, go stay with his family, maybe. And for that, I am incredibly grateful.