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His World Came Crashing Down

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John remembers the day the world imploded around him. It was seared into his mind, burned there permanently like a scar that wouldn't heal.

That day he was having a row with a chip and pin machine, again, when his phone rang. He picked it up, giving a fleeting glance to the caller ID.

"Yes, Sherlock, wha..." He trailed off. Something was definitely wrong with Sherlock's voice.

"J... John..." He sounded so... Weak. John's heart skipped a few beats. Sherlock never sounded weak.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John questions, beginning to sprint out of the shop. John heard a noise between a groan and a cough, and the panic fluttering in John's chest doubled in intensity. John ended the call, and dialled Lestrade's number.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade sounded very tired.

"Lestrade, get to 221B Baker Street now! Bring an ambulance!" John cut to the chase.

"John, is everything okay?"

"Just do it!" John jammed his phone in his pocket, not even wasting the time to end the call.

"John? Answer me!" Lestrade's voice issued from John's pocket, unheard.

John arrived at 221B in record time, he nearly sprinted straight past the door. He backtracked and ran straight through the unlocked door. Pushing past Mrs. Hudson who was standing on the landing that joined 221A and 221B, he ran through the door to the living room.

Sherlock was sprawled out on the floor in front of John's chair, a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid next to his left hand, his phone next to his right.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John ran over and knelt next to his friend. Sherlock's eyes were half moon slits, his pupils dilated, the shining blue-green still just visible from under his heavy lids.

"Jhn..." He mumbled, struggling to form words.

"Sherlock..." John repeated under his breath like a mantra. "Sherlock..." He held his best friend's head in his lap as silent tears ran down his cheeks.

"Why?" He croaked out after what seemed like an age.

Sherlock either wouldn't or couldn't answer, and his eyes slipped shut a little further.

"No, Sherlock, stay with me!" John quickly took his friend's pulse, praying that it would all be a trick, and experiment to determine John's reaction time. But, no. John could barely find a palpable pulse, and what was there was getting weaker by the second. John was so utterly helpless, he didn't know what to do, so he cupped his dying friend's cheek and rubbed his sharp cheekbone in a soothing motion. He wondered vaguely if he could cut himself on them, they were so sharp. Maybe he would feel the same pain Sherlock was experience. Hell, he might even take it away from him.

John wanted to laugh at how stupid he was, so he comforted himself by listening to Sherlock's ragged breathing, clinging on to the sound that told him Sherlock was still alive.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

Nothing.

Just like that, he was gone. No dramatic words on his last breath. He simply went, gone, left his body. His beautiful, galaxy coloured eyes staring empty into space. It hurt him unimaginably to do it, but John closed them gently, those beautiful eyes that he would never see again.

John stayed there, clasping Sherlock's limp and rapidly cooling hand, until sirens blared off in the distance, and the sounds of a car could be heard pulling over hurriedly. Too late now.

“Oh, Sherlock dear, why-“ Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, frozen mid-step. She let out a strangled sob and ran back out the doorway, presumably to fetch the ambulance. As John looked back down at Sherlock, a small piece of white paper on the arm of his armchair caught his eye. He reached out and took it in a shaking hand, dreading yet needing to see the contents.

John,

I am sorry, but I cannot live like this anymore
Since I have returned you have rejected me, cast me away for another, Mary Morstan. From the moment I first met you something was different, I felt strange, new, indescribable things. I know now that it is love. I love you John Watson, and I am sorry it had to end this way.

Goodbye, John, and may you be happy with Mary.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

“I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes. God I love you.” John sobbed, tears falling freely.

Lestrade burst into the room, out of breath.

“John, what’s…” He trailed off as he took in the terrible scene. “Oh my God.”

John couldn't remember the rest, it all blurred together. The paramedics came trampling into the room, and took Sherlock away from him. The funeral had been a large and showy affair, black horses with plumes, polished wood coffin.

There were a lot of people there, enough to be everyone Sherlock had ever met. Even Donovan and Anderson were there. Oh, how John wanted to punch them for all they had done to his beautiful Sherlock.

He split up with Mary a year later, he spent too much time at 221B ignoring her and their daughter, Rosie. To be honest, he didn't really mind. He began to crawl back into the bottle, drowning his sorrows in alcohol, because he had convinced himself that if he had not rejected Sherlock, not punched him the day he came back, he would still be alive.

Exactly one year after the suicide of the world’s only consulting detective, Dr. John Watson was found dead in his flat. There was no evidence as to how he died, for John Watson died of a broken heart.