"This phone call, its ah- its my note...that's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" John almost welcomed the rich deep voice, even if it was a harbinger of something detestable. It was so strong, even in the face of impending death. His voice sounded so weak in comparison. He hated it. It sounded so weak. How could John be so weak compared to the man who was about to jump?
"Leave a note, when?" How could John have been so stupid. When else do people leave notes? He felt despair. It was about to happen, and John, weak as he was, did nothing. Absolutely nothing. I he had even a tenth of Sherlock's brains, he would have figured something out, he would have found a way to save his friend. His best friend, whom he had let fall.
"Goodbye, John." and with that, Sherlock fell. He looked so different from his usual graceful self. He flapped his arms like a bird who's too young to fly. It was pitiful. It was painful to watch. John's heart fell just as fast as sherlock. The seconds it took for him to fall seemed like hours. John ran. He knew it was futile, that even if he did make it to Sherlock before he hit the ground, there was no way for Watson to Save him. The best he could do was possibly kill himself as well trying to stop his fall. But John would have welcomed that. Anything would be better than this Hell that John's living. He will never make it in time. He just wishes he could make it to tell Sherlock one last thing. But John is sentenced to living on without Sherlock. The broken body of the genius detective is lying on the pavement. The worst feeling in the world comes over John. The feeling of helplessness.
And John had to live this scene, over and over.