.
"When you fall, you fell towards me.
When you crashed in the clouds, you found me.
Oh please don't go.
I want you so.
I can't let go,
for I lose control."
John draws in a huge breath, trying to catch himself, trying to calm down. He's in shock, he knows, he might have a concussion.
Hell, how does that matter? How does any of this matter? John wants to run after Sherlock and wait for his friend to pop up, unharmed, and say surprise! But can't... He's stuck in place with glue under his feet and he has never felt worse than he does in this moment. Going to Afghanistan, getting shot, strapped with Semtex, fearing for his life with the Hound... no, none of that adds up to this. All of that doesn't add up to this.
He still hasn't figured it out. But it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock on that rooftop and it was Sherlock who called and it was Sherlock who jumped and it was Sherlock who was dead on the pavement, dead.
The word echoes through John's mind, like a demented chant that he can't escape.
Dead, dead, dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Your best friend is dead. Dead.
John forces himself to suck in another breath. He doesn't feel like it reaches his lungs and he instinctively gasps for air again. It, too, barely reaches its target.
He doesn't know if he wants to yell, to scream or cry, curse the world or curse Sherlock. He can't make those decisions now. All he can think is dead and goodbye, John and no, no, NO, SHERLOCK. It's a muddled mess but John can't work through it, not now. Not ever, he thinks, right now, but that has to change. It will change, right? He will get over this.
... But he knows he won't, not really. The one thing that he really cared about, the one thing that made his life his life has just jumped off a building and killed himself for reasons John will never know. He just watched his best friend jump off of a building without being to do anything.
He's a doctor, damn it. He should be able to help. He should have been able to help Sherlock, with whatever he was going through, but Sherlock hadn't even mentioned it. Even if it wasn't psychological- and John wasn't sure that it was- all Sherlock had said was I need to be alone and ideally pushed John away. He was good at that, pushing people away.
But John had always been there, pushing back, and he hadn't... He hadn't been able to do that this time. All he had been able to do was... watch.
So close and yet so far.
Breathe, reminds a tiny voice in his head. John struggles to follow the command. He stares at the place where Sherlock's been wheeled into Bart's and the place where the blood is still spread out against the pavement and he can't breathe. It's too difficult, it's too much work, it hurts.
Sherlock just put a hole in his heart and John isn't sure if he can survive it.
Sherlock hadn't survived the fall and John wasn't sure that he would, either.
Song: Please Don't Go by Barcelona.
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Or Sherlock.
Let me come through; he's my friend.