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Sherlock holds the dark blue scarf in his nimble and cold hands. It had always been John's favorite scarf of his and loved the way the dark blue made his pale skin look even whiter. Sherlock's eyes start to water for the first time in a long time as he circles the scarf around his long neck.
As he hails a cab, he thinks to himself what a fool he was. He had waited too long and now the consequences of his actions had now come back to haunt him. It was all his fault. He knows that he is responsible for John's death. He winces at his mistake. Not John's death but rather John's suicide.
If only John knew that it was for his protection, for his own good. Why couldn't John understand that he did what he did because he.... he.
Even in his mind Sherlock could not bring him self to say the word. The simple little words that he knew he should have told John when he was alive.
Sherlock entered the cab and told the driver to head to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He wanted, needed, to see John's body in person. He fiddled around with the scarf tightly circled around his neck. Mycroft had given the scarf back to him as some sort of sentiment. It was the scarf that John used to hang himself inside their flat. Mrs. Hudson had found him dangling there like bait on a string. It crushed her.
His scarf was the item responsible in the suicide of his only friend John Watson.