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The smartest man in all of London, possibly even the world, and even Sherlock Holmes didn’t see it coming. He should’ve though, he kept telling himself over and over again, because all the signs were there and right in front of his eyes that, supposedly, could observe everything.
John had…deteriorated after Sherlock’s death. That much was plain to see. He had taken to staying inside and laid in bed for days following the funeral, his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s coat, the thing he had fought so hard to get from the crime scene until finally Lestrade relented and let him take it. It seemed like he wouldn’t have eaten at all had it not been for Mrs. Hudson bringing him food and tea and coaxing him to take a little so he wouldn’t wither away.
Sherlock had been tempted to tell him that he was still safe and alive, but he didn’t, thinking that the army doctor would be safer if the world’s only consult detective wasn’t around to endanger him for the time being. Moriarty might still have spies lurking about watching, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
So he had waited, and watched his friend faller deeper and deeper into nothing. If only he had known that it would be so bad…
The faint, coppery smell drifting from the open window had been the first thing to alert him. He knew that scent all too well, and carefully jimmied the lock on 221B, his footsteps sounding like far away whisper as he climbed the stairs to the place he used to call home. The smell became sickening as he opened the door to the cozy flat, and he followed it to the bathroom, where the sight before him stopped him dead in his tracks.
John’s head lolled backwards over the lip of the bathtub, the cloudy, crimson water hiding his nakedness and preserving a bit of modesty. A stained scalpel lay on the tiled floor near the doctor’s outstretched fingers, and Sherlock felt his mind zone in on that tiny piece of fantastically sharp metal, the straight surgical cuts that marked John’s wrist and the tiny message scrawled on the floor in red.
I’m sorry.
Sherlock's brilliant mind showed him John sitting in the steaming hot water, surgical instrument grasped firmly in his hands, his face that of a broken but resolved man. He started to bear down on the soft fleshy inside of his wrist, but stopped. The consult detective could see that from the multiple hesitation marks that the doctor had still hadn't been entirely dedicated to this. But in the end, he had cut precisely through the tendons and veins, slicing deep enough that if someone had tried to stop him...they still wouldn't have been able to help. His fantastic mind showed him all this in a fraction of a second, and that was all it took for Sherlock's heart to shatter.
“No…” Sherlock whispered, his feet rushing him to the figure in the tub. He grabbed John’s damp head and cradled it to his chest, feeling it soak his shirt to his skin. “John? John please. Please.” No response came from the figure, and he knew that but he couldn't stop saying his friend's name. Sherlock knew there wouldn’t be a smile, or a laugh, or a scathing look from him ever again. Sherlock was all alone in the world, just like had left John.
And now, he had no one, and never would again.