Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Thanks to a Guest review for this prompt!
To everyone who has sent me prompts for chapters, I'm working as quickly as I can to get them out :) I promise I'll be writing every suggestion sent in to me!
Also, the recap at the beginning was thanks to the direct script translation from Ariana DeVere, so thank you to her!
"This phone call - it's… my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
John could feel his heartbeat in his chest. Sherlock wasn't about to jump off the roof - because he was Sherlock Holmes. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't.
"Leave a note… when?" he asked, trembling, dreading the answer.
"Goodbye, John," was the last of the baritone voice John heard. Sherlock tossed his phone aside, his Belstaff whipping in the wind.
"No - Sherlock!" John yelled.
The figure on the roof open his arms wide, and stepped off the side of the building. "Sher…" John began, transfixed in horror and anguish. Every heartbeat was echoing in his temples as he moved forward.
Sherlock's body plummeted through the air and landed with a crack on the pavement.
"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."
There was a ringing in his ears. He had to get to Sherlock. Sherlock.
"I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."
A cyclist crashed into him, and he collapsed onto the pavement. He had to get up, get to Sherlock. There was a crowd forming, a throng of people blocking his view of his friend. His friend.
"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."
Sherlock. He was on the pavement. Blood on the pavement. Matted hair. Crumpled, unmoving.
"John? John! You are amazing, you are fantastic!"
The crowd was in his way.
"I'm a doctor, let me come through, let me come through, please," he could hear himself saying, his voice choked, cracked. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend, please!"
"Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one."
There must be a pulse. There had to be. John's fingers scrabbled against Sherlock's hand - his friend was still warm, he must be alive - he was feeling, feeling for the pulse, the beat, the sign that meant he was alive, but he was being jostled away from Sherlock.
"Please, let me just…" he begged weakly, the scene before him flickering and ringing still.
"Goodbye, John."
Sherlock's body was flipped over. Pale, bloody face. Sea green eyes saw but didn't observe.
"Oh, Jesus, no. God, no."
Sherlock's body was carried away.
There was a blanket around John. He was back at Baker Street. It was freezing in the flat. He was aware that Mrs. Hudson was moving around near him, lighting a fire in the cold, empty fireplace.
His cheeks felt dry. He hadn't cried, the tears wouldn't come. Instead, he sat, unmoving, the image of Sherlock's eyes burned into his skull. Seeing and not observing. It was the cruelest image to remember his friend by, but he couldn't find any other memory at the moment.
"John? Tea?" Mrs. Hudson offered a cup to John. Her face was puffy, red, and wet. John hardly noticed.
"He's dead," he could hear himself saying finally. "He's dead and he's not coming back."
He picked up the cup of tea and found that his hand was trembling. It hadn't trembled like that since when he'd gotten back from Afghanistan, before he'd met Sherlock. It had gone away that first night, along with his psychosomatic limp.
Now, the tremor was back.
Tea crashed over him as the shattering of the cup rang through the flat. The tea was excruciatingly hot, but John welcomed the pain. Anything to distract him from Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, the best friend he ever had.
The violin sat near him. It was probably still in tune without much dust on it, because less than twelve hours ago, Sherlock had been sitting in that armchair across from him, playing. Not anymore. The violin wouldn't be played again.
This reminded John of the scarf and coat. Where had Lestrade taken the evidence? He had no idea, but just like the violin, the coat and scarf wouldn't be used again.
He needed his phone, he needed to see a video of Sherlock, desperate to hear and to see him, alive. He pulled himself up from his chair to retrieve his phone, and was surprised to find that he nearly collapsed to the floor as his leg cried out in pain.
It hadn't hurt like that since the last time his hand had trembled.
He limped over and grabbed his phone off of the counter. The last time he had held this, he was talking to Sherlock on the other line. Sherlock never called him. He preferred to text. But he had called him, for "his note".
He found himself opening his phone and going to his videos. His hand was shaking badly and he barely managed to click on a random video.
"We've just solved a case!" came John's cheerful voice through the video. The camera twisted to show Sherlock, who looked gleeful one moment until he realized John was filming him.
"John, put your phone away!"
"Why? It's funny to see how excited you get by solving a murder."
"Why on earth would that be funny?!" was Sherlock's reply.
"I don't know! Just humor me!"
There was movement as Sherlock made his way into the frame. "Hello, viewer. It's discouraging to hear that you're wasting your time watching this stupid video! And John, if it's you watching this - and I'm fairly sure that it is - then how about you and I play a game of Cluedo?"
John's voice in the background immediately countered that idea.
John slammed his phone off and threw it across the room. That hadn't been a good idea to watch the video, and now a hot tear came down over his cheek. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried. He was a soldier. He wasn't weak.
He would do anything to play another game of Cluedo with Sherlock. He would do anything. Anything.
Okay, so that was probably the most depressing chapter I've ever written. Getting hurt emotionally is harder and more fun (depressing) to write. Poor John.
Thanks again to the guest that suggested I write an angsty post Reichenbach of John. Also, I would be so appreciative of any reviews that have prompts for an injury or something similar! Thanks!