John unfolded his newspaper, smiling at the hat photograph that had continued to appear again and again in all the newspapers. Sherlock didn't understand it. John thought it was hilarious and was thinking of cutting them out, like he often did when the papers mentioned one of their cases, and placing the photos in a scrapbook. Just to annoy Sherlock. Who must be currently out on a case, seeing as he wasn't here and complaining he was bored. Of course he didn't tell John. He never did.
Footsteps echoed from the stair-case. Sherlocks. See, he wasn't the only one who could deduce such things. "Save the day did you? Solve the mystery?" John didn't look up as he taunted the detective. However there was no witty comeback. This alone was not unusual as the detective often went days without ever uttering a single word. John turned around anyway, for all he knew something could be wrong. And it was. And God did John wish he hadn't turned at all.
Sherlock was in his usual attire. Long Belstaff coat, deep blue scarf wrapped around his neck. Nothing out of the ordinary there. No, what tipped him off that something was very wrong, was the fact that his face was drenched in blood, one side seemingly dented. He was as white as snow, his lips blue and his eyes, dead, hollow. His hair dripped little pools of blood onto the carpet.
"Something wrong John?"
"Apart from the fact, you're dead? No nothing at all. Not one f-fucking thing"
John dropped the paper, putting his head in his hands and trying not to cry. The army doctor felt a hand cup his chin, a cold, dead hand. It was freezing, like touching ice. John grabbed the wrist, but there was no pulse. There would never be a pulse. "Look at me, John", The doctor shook his head, no he couldn't look at Sherlock. Not like this. Never like this.
"John"
"No, shut up. Please just shut up. You're dead and you aren't coming back. Please. Just shut up."
"Why?"
"No.. please don't sound so confused. Why do you have to sound so...alive?"
"Because right now I'm not"
A pain filled chuckled escaped John's lips, quickly growing into sobs. John's shoulders heaved as the army doctor poured out his tears, letting them trickle past his fingertips and mingle with the blood upon the floor.
"I miss you, so much. Sherlock why did you do it? Please just tell me that. Was it my fault?"
But the flat was empty. He would never get that answer.
John awoke slowly, sweating as he normally did during such dreams. He was glad Mary was asleep in her flat tonight. He didn't want her to see him cry. The dreams never seemed to stop. Whether they were simply memories or scenes from the worst horror film imaginable; they never ceased to plague the army doctor. His therapist said that it was because he blamed himself. And he did. Because it was true. Was this his punishment? An eternity of seeing his friend die over and over again? Of having his heart continually broken when ever he awoke, remembering that he was no longer there?
Perhaps it was. And perhaps he deserved it.
Sherlock looked down at the quiet street below. It seemed so far, so final. The wind whipped around him, his coat billowing. If he didn't jump, they'd all be dead. He knew when he came up here, that Moriarty would try and make the detective take his own life. So Sherlock had arranged to meet on top of St Barts. They would do things on his terms. Oh, The consulting criminal would think he had the upper hand, but in reality the control remained in Sherlock's court.
Or so he thought.
No one was supposed to get hurt, except himself, if it came to that. Jim had cheated, but then that was him all over. Sherlock's only consultation was that he had a plan to save his own life if he had to jump. For a split second he thought he had found a way out, until Jim had given him that little incentive. If you don't jump, all your friends will die.
Which was why Sherlock was now standing on the edge of the building, still hesitant. John would never know the truth. No one would. But then John had returned, Sherlock now had no choice but to break his friend's heart. So he told him a lie, a fairy tale and prepared to jump. But he waited too long. He had hesitated for a fraction more than he should and John fell. Not Sherlock. John. John fell to the ground with a bullet in his head. And Sherlock knew that elsewhere in London the same fate had befallen Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Terror filled him. Then grief. Then nothing.
He'd lost and as he sobbed for the friends he had killed, he slipped and fell, falling into a deep abyss.
Sherlock sat up so suddenly that Mycroft spilled all his tea down his front. The ginger detective looked around wildly, panting, his face anxious and terrified. He lay his head back down, wiping the sweat from his brow and kicking off the blanket, his body shivering with cold sweat. "Sssh 'Lockie. It was just a dream. You know it wasn't real". Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft didn't understand.
It almost had been.
Two men lay back in their beds. Each mourning the loss of another, each mourning a man who was not dead. Except one believed it to be true while the other mourned the loss of a friendship he feared he would never get back. Of a man he wondered if he would ever speak to again.