Chapter Text
Gone. Yes, gone. Sherlock Holmes was gone. Dead. Forever most likely. John sank to the ground. He felt suddenly sick, and dizzy. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He could not wrap his head around the thought that his best friend, and sociopath, he might add, was dead. Goodbye, John. Three hours and two ambulances later, those words still rang in his head. This is my note. His note?! Sherlock Holmes, the man who saved John Watson, helped him recover from PTSD, helped John get a life outside of therapy- leaves a NOTE?
This was not his Sherlock, the one who solves murders and has no friends except John and brings John along on his cases (even though he’s mostly utterly useless) and genuinely enjoys puzzling cases- This was not his Sherlock!
Standing outside 221B, Baker, John was on his knees in front of the door shaking from hurt and anger. Mrs.Hudson came out, gasped and hurriedly tried to pull him inside to probably make tea for him, but John wasn't paying attention, for Sherlock Holmes is dead. John hadn't talked to the police, or the medical examiners, or Lestrade, or Mycroft, or anyone, because Sherlock Holmes is dead.
John was suddenly aware that he was inside, also very suddenly aware that his Military instincts had kicked in to drag him upstairs without falling or shuddering anymore. He was a soldier, after all. It suddenly hit him, very hard, how empty the flat was. It did not have any sounds in it. No gunshots being fired at the wall, no Violin being played, no clinking of glass to prove that Sherlock was experimenting again, no coffee maker on, no tea kettle on, no sounds of Sherlock that John had grown used to hearing. No Sherlock.
John couldn't do this. He couldn't go into the flat to find that there was and would never be any Sherlock in there ever again. He stepped outside. He closed the door. He walked down stairs. He let his Military side take over, because if he didn't, he might break again. He stepped outside into the cold night air, and took a cab far away from Sherlock Holmes.