it never left. [bbc sherlock]

it never left.

My old therapist's words come crashing back to me.

If you could describe yourself in three words, John, what words would you choose?

Numb. Cold. Broken.

And why have you chosen those words?

Because the only person I've ever truly loved has just thrown himself off a bloody building.

-

My heart stops when I realise that my mad genius's heartbeat isn't there anymore. His heart wasn't beating. Sherlock wasn't conscious. He never would be again.

My heart shatters when I realise that there will no longer be any quips, any moments of enlightenment, any adventures, none of those. Not anymore. Because the only reason I had all those things was because of Sherlock.

And finally, my heart breaks into pieces when I realise there is no more Sherlock. There is no crazy madman to interrupt my dates, no genius to wake me up at two in the morning, no detective to drag me to crime scenes.

No more Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world.

No— not just that, there was no more Sherlock, my best friend.

There's a crowd around us, I know. Someone pushes me off to the side, asking if I'm okay. I don't respond. My eyes aren't focussed. I don't think I'll ever be okay again.

I sit there on the cold pavement who claimed my best friend. I feel an unreasonable urge to curse the pavement, to break it, to remove it from existence. I watch as a police car pulls up. A policeman gets out of the car, rushing to me.

"John."

Was that Lestrade?

"John... I'm so, so sorry."

That was Lestrade.

I try to answer, I really do try, but I can't. Words can't come out of my mouth, they don't flow. I'm only somewhat aware of tears streaming down my face. Only slightly aware of my sobs. I'm stuck inside my head, trying desperately to hold onto thoughts of Sherlock. Trying hard to not let the memories slip through my fingers when I need them the most.

-

The memories come back to me eventually.

I despise them.

They rush back to me as I sit in my chair, pathetically wrapping one of Sherlock's old scarves around my neck, inhaling its scent.

God, how I miss him.

How could he have done this to me? I know you, for real, I had said.

Apparently, I didn't know him very bloody well.

I'm still at 221b. I haven't gathered the courage to go out yet. I've stayed inside for days.

A stream of people have dropped by to offer their condolences. I accept Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly.

I tell Anderson and Donovan to sod off. I tell them I don't want to see them ever again.

The gun has stayed in my hand every day since I returned to Baker Street. I reckon it'll stay in my hand till the end of my days.

I twiddle with the trigger with one hand pathetically, the other gripping the scarf.

I'm half tempted to shoot the smiley face and cry, "Bored!"

The more sensible part of me makes me stay planted in the chair.

-

This is a very, very bad idea.

This is the only idea that feels right.

It's nighttime. The city of London continues to move beneath me. They don't know how cruel I'll be to them in a few moments.

I'm sitting where Sherlock was standing, on top of St. Bart's. It seems fitting.

The gun is in my hand. It never left.

The war is still in my head. The war never left, either.

The shot that will ring in a few moments will declare the end of the war.

I inhale sharply, preparing myself for what I'm about to do.

After a few moments, I compose myself, and stand up shakily.

The shot rings, and everything goes dark.