John had been thinking about it for some time. It was always there, sometimes distant, sometimes urgent but always there. He tried to seek help but they all said heâd get over it, that it was all a part of life, death was.
He still wanted to know, why would Sher-. He couldnât. He still couldnât say it, after all of these months he couldnât. It hurt too much. The blood, all of that blood. Heâd seen more, more blood and gore in casualties at war, but it was Sherlock and he broke. He broke at the sight of him Sherlock shattered on the pavement. It wasnât supposed to end like that. They were supposed to carry on solving unexplainable crimes, finding the answers. Life never does work out the way John hopes.
The one thing that helped him after the war was gone. His salvation, his peace had been taken from him, ripped from his grasping hands. He couldnât do this anymore.
He was already standing on top of the very same building. His feet on the edge, his breath coming in great gulps. His heart was miniscule, or so it seemed. Heâd felt it deflate, felt it shatter and wither as he fell. John looked into the sky. He tried to calm his racing heart, his rushing blood pulsing through his veins, keeping him alive. He didnât want this. He didnât want a world without the great mind of Sherlock Holmes present. It wasnât right.
He rocked on the edge of the building. He hated this building. He hated the memory it cause to flood his brain, the pictures, the blood. All he had to do was close his eyes; he didnât need the constant reminder when he rarely left his new flat.
He took off the stupid hat Sherlock had one worn on their outings to solve the antics of the city, throwing it behind him. He closed his eyes, the pain and fear and utter heartbreak clear as the morning sun on his face. He opened his eyes, the tears spilling and falling down his cheeks as he put his foot out over the edge.
âWhy did you leave me,â he whispered.
Under the read more is an alternate ending (mostly for Ashleigh because hey, this is angst.)
âWhy did you leave me,â he whispered.
âI didnât, John.â Spoke a subdued voice from the darkness of the roof.
John spun around, not careful enough though, as he began to slip, his foot sliding down the edge of the building.
âNO!â Roared the voice.
John couldnât speak, his throat was lodged with something, his eyes streaming and his heart ferociously beating.
The figure grasped Johnâs hand before heâd fallen without any hope of saviour and pulled him up and hugged him to his chest.
âJohn, I couldnât leave you. Of course I couldnât. I was always there. I should have told you but it was too dangerous, you were the perfect target. To kill yourself, John, that would have been the biggest tragedy of the century.â
John merely gasped and cried and sobbed endlessly against his chest.
âS-s-s-herlock,â he spluttered, his eyes closed as tightly as they could, lest this was a dream. âI donât. I canât. WhyâŠâ He began heaving and sobbing, his arms wrapped around Sherlock in what would have been a loving embrace had it not been severely tight with his fingers digging into Sherlockâs back.
âIâm not letting you go again, Sherlock. I wonât let you leave me again.â
âI wouldnât dream of it,â Sherlock whispered, blinking the tears back so nobody would see.
