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Then with a soft sigh his chest stopped rising, his eyelids stopped fluttering, and his heart stopped beating. There was no sudden noise to mourn him. No one crashed through the door sobbing at his passing. Even John was unable to shed a single tear. Sherlock Holmes was dead and the world moved on as it always had.
Outside the window life carried on, not caring that one of the greatest men ever born was no longer here. Cars streamed by, children wailed and laughed; nothing seemed to be out of place. And yet everything was.
It took John several tries to get out of his chair; his body seemed unwilling to move even a single inch, as though if he stayed just exactly in this spot he could just pretend it hadn't happened. Slowly minutes passed and he eventually managed to heave himself up, walking dazedly over to the table. His phone lay next to an abandoned mug, stone cold by now, ignored like so many other cups he had made Sherlock over the years.
He struggled a few seconds with what to say before giving up and simply texting "hes dead." Unable to elaborate John set the phone back and collapsed once more into his chair. His gaze settled on the body before him. And that’s all it was, a body. All of the energy and charisma that had surrounded him was gone. Now there was just a shell.
OoOoO
Several weeks went by time crawling slowly as though it were as reluctant as he to resume life without the detective. Eventually John was able to get himself out of the flat: small errands, a few hours here and there at the clinic, maybe even a visit with Lestrade on days he was feeling particularly ambitious.
Yet, again and again he found himself sitting at the desk, his Sig nestled in his lap, the metal cool against his skin as he stared at the blinking cursor on his screen. He hadn't been able to write a thing since Sherlock's death, every entry stopped after a sentence or two; the memories still too fresh for him to deal with. Slowly he turned the gun from side to side, the light of the lamp glinting off the barrel, shining and ready for action even now. He knew he wouldn't be chasing any criminals now a days, but it never hurt to stay ready. At least that's what he kept telling himself everytime he found himself pulling out his oils and cloth. Just in case. That's all.
Lately he had been pulling it out more and more, the weight reassuring in his hand as he struggled to subdue the guilt and grief that had been his constant companion for nearly a month. Each day survived only as a reminder that it should have been him that was lying under a headstone. After all, the world could've managed with one less soldier. Sherlock was a far greater loss than he would have ever been.
John looked down at the gun, the metal now warm in his palm. Leaning his head back in his chair he finally allowed himself to remember that night fully: the thrill of the chase, the sight of Sherlock running through the building his ridiculous coat flapping behind him, the smell of gunpowder as he saw his friend suddenly stop in his tracks.
The case had started like any other, a new serial killer had started up in town. Barely an eight on Sherlock's scale, but just enough to get him out of the house for the first time in months. It hadn't taken long for the detective to track down the woman, exclaiming the whole time about how novel it was to finally find another female killer. Even now John nearly smiled as he remembered the smile that had lit up the usually reserved face. One would have thought it were the worlds best Christmas gift with the way he had prattled on during the cab ride.
the levity with which Sherlock was treating the case had caused John to lower his guard somewhat, trusting that the detective knew what he was getting them into. Then he followed Sherlock, just like he always had. They quickly found the building where the killer had been hiding, an old butcher's shop out near the Thames, somewhat amusing of a hideout really John couldn't help thinking at the time.
Sherlock had rushed ahead with his usual impatience, not waiting for the men Lestrade had set after them. Ignoring the nagging feeling that perhaps he should force Sherlock to slow down John had simply trailed after, assuming that everything would turn out alright. THey had been in dozens of tight spots, yet they had made it out of each. Perhaps that had made him complacent. John couldn't think of any other reason he would have allowed his friend to run through the building like that, unarmed.
But he hadn't. instead he found himself trailing after Sherlock as they ran through the corridors, the woman flitting ahead of them always just out of reach. And in just a moment it was over. He saw Sherlock turn to round a corner, his eyes widen slightly at whatever it was he saw, then a gunshot. It seemed to happen both in slow motion, and all in a split second. He didn't jerk, he didn't fall back, Sherlock simply crumpled with a soft cry, one arm reaching up to clasp at his chest.
Ignoring the woman as he heard her flee John crouched next to his friend, his training quickly kicking in as he struggled to stop the bleeding. The bullet had missed his heart, but just barely. There was little chance he would survive even if they managed to get him to a hospital, and it seemed Sherlock knew it just as well as John.
They fought briefly before John gave in - just as he always had - and simply took Sherlock home. During the ride back to Baker Street he sent a text to Lestrade, telling him what had happened, and upon Sherlock's insistence, that he should leave them be. Sherlock seemed insistent that he be alone, or as alone as John would allow which entailed the two of them simply sitting together in their flat, the silence between them speaking far more than words ever could.
Though the blood flow had slowed, it only took an hour or two for Sherlock to pass away, not having said a word since they'd gotten home.
Tears silently slipped down John's face, the first he had shed since that night. He didn't make a sound, just sat there as all the hurt and pain tried to work its way out of him. The Sig was a comforting weight in his hand as he stared over at Sherlock's chair, still sitting where it always had. His thumb stroked over the safety as he gazed at this last reminder of what he had lost.
Slowly he brought his hand up, the gun nestled in his palm, his finger finding the trigger with the familiarity that came with far too many attempts. Not a sound escaped him as he settled the stock on his temple, quickly pressing the trigger.