John did not believe it at first. He had tried to stop the blood shooting out from his friend's chest. There had been so much of it. His lap was soaked as well. John's mind had kept telling him it was another trick. Another fake death. He had ripped off the young man's shirt, had pulled at his trousers, ignoring any sense of propriety. There had been no mistaking the wounds. John had inspected the exit wounds, nasty, irregular tears of skin, and the blood. God, so much blood. And then it had started running from the detective's mouth. Running. Not dripping. It was then that John knew it was over. He had put a hand on the injured shoulder and the world had stopped.
They must have taken him away eventually. John did not remember. He was home in Baker Street when Mycroft had called.
"John. I've got bad news."
John squeezed his eyes shut at the memory of it. Bad news. Of course, Sherlock had fallen into a coma, he had thought. And he had chuckled.
"He's dead, John," Mycroft had said. Just that. John still wondered if it had hurt less if there had been more words. John, you must be very strong now. I've got to tell you something, make sure you're sitting down. My brother's injuries were fatal. Followed by a dramatic pause. He also wondered if it had helped if Mycroft had come to tell him in person. He doubted it.
"How?" he had asked unhelpfully, and Mycroft had told him, "Pneumothorax and pleural effusion," Mycroft kept to the facts (or so John thought), "He didn't suffer, John, at least, that's what we think." Three bullets. Snap. Bang. There goes a life.
Mycroft had mumbled some ineffective words of compassion and had hung up. John had just stared. He could not say how long he remained standing there. But he just stayed next to Sherlock's desk by the window and stared with unseeing eyes. Then he had looked.
He had taken in Sherlock's life, his books, his experiments, his collections. And the skull. Of course, the skull. Alas, poor Sherlock. But had John known Sherlock?
He had run a hesitant hand along the spines of the many, many books the detective had piled up on his shelves. He had wandered around the kitchen table, and for a moment he had stood outside Sherlock's bedroom. What if it was all a bad dream? What if Sherlock was tucked up in bed? John gently pushed the door open and stepped into the other man's bedroom. It was smaller than he had expected, only holding a bed and a wardrobe. There were more books piled against the inner wall. A glass of water still on the bedside table. John sat down on the bed and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked older. Sherlock would frown. But he was dead, wasn't he?
Mrs Hudson had cried.
John had packed. Most things in the flat were Sherlock's. He contemplated his desk: books on medicine, some crime novels with broken spines, a calendar, his laptop, a mug, nothing fancy. There were no eccentric items, nothing with a personality. Maybe that was because he had no personality. John gulped. Sherlock had had lots of it. Too much maybe. John pouted as he remembered his former flat mate. He found it hard to believe that this fantastic man had just stopped existing. Snap. Bang.
Then Mycroft had come and handed him Sherlock's Last Will. John had gulped and taken it without a word. The older Holmes had attempted a sympathetic smile but failed.
"My brother was very fond of you, John," Mycroft said, "You'll find his Will very much in your favour. And he also asked me to give you this." Mycroft handed him a sealed envelope, "I haven't read it. Which, in itself, is a compliment. I think I know what my brother always wanted to tell you but couldn't," the sturdy man sighed, "He left the letter in my safekeeping. Only to be taken to you after his-"
John nodded and took the letter. He thanked Mycroft who bowed almost imperceptibly and sank onto the sofa. First he unfolded the testament and could not believe it: Sherlock had left him ₤150,000 and the flat. He wished his library to be handed over to the university. His experiments were to be destroyed. John should keep whatever he wished. The rest would be taken care of by Mycroft.
The doctor shook his head and broke the other letter's seal. Leaning into the cushions, he read:
"Dear John.
I should have told you in life that you were my best friend. My only friend. I probably never admitted it because sociopaths don't do friends at all. So maybe I was wrong.
You will have read my Last Will, of course. Let me explain the sum though, John. I bought the flat soon after you moved in with me. I don't know why I never mentioned it. Maybe I was afraid you'd rather leave than share my house with me. Over the years, you paid nearly ₤63,000 on rent and bills. It's not my money to keep, so take it back, please. And do take the rest of my savings as some sort of adjustment.
When you're reading this, I will be dead. I can't tell you how I died, because I don't know. Most likely I will have been shot. Don't grieve. I know that's a futile advice. I know I would be devastated if I lost you. I now have. Get on with your life. It was marvellous to know you. Thank you for everything, John Watson.
Sherlock"
And John cried.