He felt his legs go numb.
It couldn't be.
"John!" he screamed at the ground. John didn't move. He laid against the sidewalk as bystanders rushed to him.
He had to get down there.
His brain couldn't process as he ran towards the stairwell. The door slammed behind him and Sherlock rushed down the stairs taking three at a time. He felt propelled down the four flights. As He reached the ground floor, he already saw a small group of people hovered over John.
It couldn't be.
He pushed the doors open and ran towards the hoard.
"Let me through!" he shouted.
The public was too enchanted by the emergency that they didn't pay Sherlock any attention. He pushed through a pair of oblivious bystanders.
"Move!" he shouted.
They didn't.
He knocked one off his feet as he got through.
John lay on his side. A man in scrubs had his hand on John's neck while another doctor had her hands pressed against his chest. A puddle of blood had formed around them and was diluted by the falling rain.
An older woman grabbed him by the arm and attempted to restrain him. "Let them work," she said.
He felt dizzy as he barreled forward. "Stop," he said as his mind began fog.
"Sir," she chastised.
He pulled his arm away with such force that her nails scratched his skin. "He's my friend," he muttered. "Let me through."
Sherlock fell in front of John on his hands and knees. The crowd took a step back as the doctors turned John on his side.
"John," he said as he went to touch his friend.
His eyes were still open there was a hint of life left. Sherlock touched his hand and John's eyes lazily refocused. "John," he said, "I'm sorry."
"'s o…kay," John slurred as the doctors gestured over for the gurney that was fast approaching.
The doctors shouted at him to move but he couldn't. He gripped John's hand tighter and felt as it grew slacker and colder in his own. It couldn't happen, not like this. The shouts of those around him quieted to a dull roar.
John's eyes fluttered but stayed fixed on Sherlock. There wasn't pain on his face. "John…" he said. "Stay with me."
He smiled back. The color from John's face grew sallow and paler by the second.
This wasn't happening.
This couldn't be how it ended.
"Sir," the doctor said as the gurney pulled up. "We need to get him inside."
Sherlock didn't want to let go. John's hand felt cold and lifeless inside his own. He had the dreadful feeling that this would be the last chance he'd see him alive. He couldn't do it. He couldn't leave John all by himself.
The woman behind him took his forearm gentle in her hands and slowly pulled his fingers off of John's hand. "Let them work," she said softly.
She was bent down next to him with her hands still against him. The warmth of her body was in stark contrast to the icy cold of John's skin. He knew that it was over. He knew that he'd lost his friend. The woman didn't move even as the others backed away.
He couldn't move.
His knee dug into the concrete of the sidewalk and the rain fell and plastered his coat against his back. He wanted to run back to that roof and kill Moriarty all over again. He squeezed his hands into a fist and slammed them into the concrete over and over again.
The first hit did nothing to stop the pain so he did it again.
And again.
His fingers crunched against the concrete and he felt his pinkie break. It was what he deserved.
"Stop," the woman said.
He couldn't stop.
"Sherlock," she said quietly.
He tried to catch his breath but it wouldn't come. The adrenaline had shut down his system and he could little more than stay in place. It was then that Molly let her hands off his jacket and walked in front of him and knelt down face to face.
"Let go inside," she said. "I'll bandage your hand."
The tears were lodged in his throat and he was afraid the slightest movement would unleash them. He shook his head. "No," he said. "I want to stay here."
She wiped away a tear. "You need to come in."
They were all gone.
He'd lost everyone who cared about him in one day.
He was alone.
The thud of realization was overwhelming.
"I can't," he said.
She got to her feet and ran back inside the building.
Alone.
It should have been comforting. That was what he always wanted, right? Solitude. People just gum up the works and slow you down.
They'd find Moriarty. They'd ask questions. He'd have to say that he didn't even try. Sherlock Holmes let them all die because he was outsmarted. He hit the ground again and he felt his wrist crack under the pressure.
Just as he brought his wrist against his chest to calm the throbbing pain, the constant stream of rain against his back stopped.
Molly sat back on the ground next to him with a large black umbrella perched above the pair of them. She didn't say a word as she inched the umbrella until it covered his body while hers quickly got soaked.
To be continued...