His whole world seemed to come crashing down and collapse into his lungs and heart. Sherlock couldn't take the pain. For once, he couldn't. There was no doubt about it; John Watson had found a way and slowly slipped in and smuggled his heart to rupture it in the end and leave him cold and limb in the hard ground like he was at the moment.

The best and only private consultive detective in the world, asked to help her majesty himself and able to deduce everything and anything around him hadn't deduced what was clearly there. That was now clearly there but rudely taken away by the cruelty of the universe. A world that Sherlock always avoided but secretly hoped for. Now that the chance was gone, that his head had been slammed by a closing door he had never noticed was when he caught on.

What could've been. That's what had Sherlock Holmes collapsed in the ground crying. Sobbing. Clutching and crumbling the sheets of paper in his hands for the sake of something to hold. Reaching for the folded uniform and crushing the fabric as he pulled it closer to himself. All he wanted was to remember the scent of him but it only brought more images of what could've been.

Was this death? The agonizing pain in his chest that made his lungs burn every time he forced himself to breath. How heavy and painful every beating of his heart that wasn't John's was. The way all of his body seemed to collapse in itself and leave him on the ground like a squirming fish out of water? He welcomed it. Welcomed death to swallow him whole but it never did. It just left him on the ground struggling and gasping for breath, but still breathing.

Sherlock never realized because he didn't want to or because he was afraid. For once, he didn't know. Sherlock Holmes didn't know anything except that he had finally learned to love. That he had always loved John Watson, but now it was too late. He had peaked in and the door had slammed shut. Now he cursed every force, deity, God or gods that ran the universe for taking his John away.