PRESENT DAY
John jerked his arm away from the detective and stumbled as Sherlock rose from the chair.
"John... What happened? Why did you..." His voice was dripping with sorrow and disbelief; his eyes were as large as saucers and his pupils were blown wide.
They both looked at the corpse for a moment before their eyes returned to the other, each filled with the same levels of shock though for different reasons.
"Why would you do this?"
"Why would you pretend to be dead and leave me all alone?" John's voice was apathetic and monotone though his mind buzzed with stunned anger.
"It was all for you... Everything I did was for you! Moriarty was there and-"
Sherlock kept talking, but John couldn't hear nor process a word the detective desperately spewed. John's mind was slowly quelling the panic and disbelief until only one emotion remained: anger.
It started as a thought that kept repeating itself in his mind, tumbling and turning about in the disorder until it became the only thing he heard, growing louder and louder with each passing minute. It continued chanting in his thoughts, though he began to whisper it. The whisper morphed into a normal voice, growing louder and louder until John was screaming it at the top of his lungs:
"YOU. LEFT. ME."
It was a simple whisper that Sherlock's agile ears detected, but he plowed on; he had to explain his actions. Sherlock kept ignoring it until John's phrase grew into shouts and screams; it was then, and only then, that the detective grew silent.
"YOU. LEFT. ME." John repeated, his fists clenching and his body rigid as the doctor seethed.
"DO YOU EVER LISTEN TO ME?" Sherlock screamed in reply, abandoning any mask or shield as the detective allowed his emotions to be fully broadcasted.
"YOU. LEFT. ME."
"I DID IT TO PROTECT YOU!"
"PROTECT ME? PROTECT ME!" John screamed, jabbing a finger on Sherlock's chest. "YOU HAUNTED ME; YOU TORMENTED ME FOR YEARS!"
"I LEFT BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!"
"If that's what you do to people you love, I pity your actual enemies." John sneered, reeling as he moved to the kitchen, the detective quickly following.
"Everything I did, everything I've done, was to protect you. I didn't think you would be this affected by my death."
"You didn't think death would affect me? Do you know how many friends I have had to bury over the years? Do you realize that you were the closest friend I've ever had in my whole life? I'd rather have been tortured and murdered at the hands of Moriarty than gone through those three years!" John ripped his sleeves up, exposing the numerous scars on his arms. "You did this to me Sherlock; you made me do this to myself."
"Why?" Sherlock moved forward, his hand ghosting over the self-inflicted wounds.
"You wouldn't leave me alone. I wanted you gone; cutting myself was the only thing that worked. When cutting stopped driving you away, I began killing people to make you continue to vanish." John paused, collecting his thoughts. "I loved you, you know."
Sherlock's eyes softened, though they didn't lose their horrified gleam, and he leaned forward. John, after running his fingers along his jacket, moved forward as well, until Sherlock was pressed against the wall.
Their lips were centimeters apart, the space between vanishing with each passing second. John grinned sadistically, one hand reaching for Sherlock's waist while the other pulled something long, sharp and metallic out of his jacket. Before Sherlock could blink, the blade rose over his chest.
"And now I can be rid of you forever."
The knife plunged into Sherlock's heart. John let go of the detective's corpse, watching in sick fascination as it slid to the ground.
It was many hours before the sudden trance that gripped John moments after he ripped the life out of his best friend and love vanished, and the doctor moved toward the corpse.
It was then that a sickening horror smote him.
He cradled Sherlock's body, his tears drenching the angular face. His bright multicolored orbs lifelessly stared into the distance, much like after the fall all those years ago, though this time, the death was real and by John's hands.
It was a sort of sick Romeo and Juliet, he thought as his hands cupped Sherlock's cheeks.
John pressed his lips to the detective's in a chaste kiss.
There was one thing left to do; one thing missing from the story.
After all, what was Juliet without her Romeo?
John ruefully grinned, yanking the knife out of the detective's chest. With one hand, the doctor affectionately ruffled Sherlock's hair, and, with the other, he clasped the handle.
"Life is not worth living without you. Let us hope death will be kinder to us both."
John laughed, though it was one of heartbreak rather than mirth.
His hand was perfectly steady as the blade rose over his heart and plunged into the organ.