Oneshots of John lock<3

The day after. (Bbc)

Sherlock Holmes, The now famous detective who was suspected for a fraud. Was dead. He stood on top of the hospital and jumped, as John witnessed it all. His own lover had to witness his cruel death, without even knowing it was to save him. He didn't think it was real, nobody could. Although his death was rather abrupt, the build up of the newspapers wasn't. Wouldn't he just disappear sooner? Why didn't he tell John about what he was going to do? They told each other everything. There were no answers, and there wouldn't be for a long time.
John had his head dug into his pillow, his cheeks felt stiff with tears and he clenched his phone. Mycroft forced him to go home, promising a phone call update later on. But he knew there wasn't going to be much of a update, other that Sherlock Holmes being pronounced death. A feeling of illness had build up from his stomach to his throat, knowing if he were to even try and talk. He'd fail, and breakdown once again. He couldn't break down again, he's witnessed so much during the war. Why does this hurt so much more? He had so many questions. Sherlocks words ringing in his head, things that were most definitely not important, but he felt as if it were. That's what sherlock would do, but that's the issue. Nobody, could think like sherlock, nobody. John rolled over, feeling as if he were going to be sick by the slight movement. He didn't want to go anywhere, this was his home with sherlock, the dusty ruined flat. his eyes felt sore with the glimpse of sunlight, he didn't feel like he had the right to be so upset. It wasn't as if they were married, but he loved sherlock. He loved him with his whole heart. Why didn't he say he loved him? Why didn't he admit it? He'd never be able to now. His phone started to buzz, seeing Mycroft's name appear across the screen. Why bother answer it? He closed his eyes as the buzzing continued, debating whether to pick it up. Though, it finally ended. And after a few seconds he got the notification that a voicemail had been left. He sighed, swiping his finger along the play button hearing a tired voice on the other side.
"Afternoon John, look. I understand this is really hard on you. Although as you've probably suspected, he's been confirmed dead, and we're preparing a funeral date and reservations. We want to get the coffin out of the way, so I'll be round to pick you up in a couple hours. Please be ready, he'd want you to play a part in this." A small beep followed when the message ended. He didn't want to pick Sherlocks coffin, he didn't want to attend his funeral. Sherlock was still alive in his heart, why does he have to let go so quickly? Johns figure curled back up, dragging the blanket over his body. Feeling as if there was no escape form this Greif.

(I'm still sick so sorry it's crap </3)