a/n; angst!John alert. Even though we all know that killing Sherlock seems to be impossible.
It was his fault. All his fault, and whatever happened now would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He knew he should've gone with Sherlock- but John had been so exhausted from work, so the detective had gone alone, chasing a lead for his current case. Said chase had ended here- this dark London alleyway that smelled of desperation, desolation, and a million other hateful d-words. Some strange drive had forced him to follow Sherlock here and he'd been greeted with this figure. Face down, shirt knife-blade slashed, a pool of crimson expanding around his form.
John dropped to his knees at the man's side. Some part of him, poisoning the concept with hysterical, ironic near-humor, had him wondering if this was how Sherlock felt on a daily basis. Mind splintering under the speed and impact of so many thoughts all at once, which then shattered into glassy fragments that slashed at him when as tried to collect them.
His mind knew there was no point in bothering. His heart had his trembling hands on the wound, providing futile pressure. But his soul was wailing what seemed to be nononononono please no, not him take me, I can't do this without him, mine, my Sherlock, and oh God, how could anyone survive losing this much blood?