He was like a rotten leaf in autumn that was fluttering delicately to the ground. But leaves don't make a single sound when they find their most permanent destination. Well maybe except for a soft whisper, like a hidden secret.

        Sherlock cracked. There was no whisper, except for the echo of John's scream. But there was a crack, a slam, a bang. It wasn't just his body that made the noise. It was the whole atmosphere. Everything--everyone--just stopped. And then it started...but in slow motion.

        John willed his feet to move, to just run. He had to get to Sherlock; it was the only thing he wanted...it was the only thing he needed. And then he's sprinting about as fast as he can. A reminder of the war flashed in his mind. The only time he had run this fast was when he was attempting to rescue someone, to save someone. I guess this wasn't any different.

        There's a bike, a crushing fall, but John's whole mind is blurred. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. He keeps repeating in his thoughts, and then he realizes he's saying it aloud.

        He's crumpling to the ground beside the dilapidated, paralyzed body.

        He's repeating the most fantastic, ridiculous name he's ever heard.

        He's reaching for the pale, frigid hand, and he's searching for a pulse.

        He's hit with a wall of realization.

        He's hit with the worst pain he's ever felt.

        He knows. He knows.

        Sherlock isn't ever going to stand, laugh, and tease John about how the doctor acted towards his "note."

        "Oh John, I just totally fell for the prank Moriarty pulled." John might even laugh. He might laugh and cry and hug because he's alive.

        But Sherlock isn't going to stand, laugh, and tease John.

        No pulse equaled no life...and Sherlock had no pulse.

        John sort of fades into the blurry aura that had surrounded him. People are shifting, taking Sherlock away. They're trying to communicate with the blogger. John doesn't speak. All he can do is let out tiny murmurs of Sherlock and small noises that resembled a moan or a whimper.

        He doesn't smell the ansipetic of nurses and the mortician. All odors are omitted.

          He doesn't taste the blood from biting his lip too hard. All the bitter, metal-like liquid is forgotten.

        He doesn't hear the sirens. All noise is muffled.

        He doesn't see the detectives. All sights are blurred.

        He doesn't feel Lestrade's hand on his arm. All movements are ridded.

       "John? John." Lestrade shakes his shoulder until those brown eyes flit over to him.

        "G-G-Greg?" He stutters.

        "Hey, John."

        "Sherlock..." he whispers.

        "John. Did you see it?"

        The blogger can muster a mere nod.

        "Bloody hell."

        "I want his coat," John says in a commanding tone.

        Lestrade quirks a gray eyebrow.

        "Greg!" Donovan jogs over to the two men and speaks in a rush of words. "Suicide. At least that's what pedestrians said. Apparently he jumped."

        "He did," John mumbles.

        Donovan snickers, "I told you. I told you one day we would be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one who put it there."

        A spurt of pure anger fizzles in John's fists before he grabs the lapels of Sally's coat. "Don't. You. Dare. Insult him." Lestrade hurries to force the doctor off of the sergeant, and John strides away, seething with hatred.

        "Can I have his coat, please?" He finds himself asking an officer who's standing beside the body. John doesn't dare look down.

        "Let him have the coat, officer." Lestrade hurries up to the blonde man's side, nodding.

        "But, sir, it'd evid--"

        "He's been through enough."

        And that's it. And John is suddenly holding the coat in his arms. Heat still radiates from the black fabric as the blogger slings it across his shoulders. It gives him an air of superiority; no wonder Sherlock always wore the thing. He tilts his head to inhale the oh-so-familiar musky scent of the detective. It still lingered on the scratchy material, and John was instantly grateful.        

        All he had wanted was this coat. Not the scarf, not the infamous purple shirt, not a lock of luscious hair, not the deerstalker. The coat. The beautiful, beautiful coat.

        It smelled like him.

        It felt like him.

        It looked like him.

        It was him.

        John pops the collar up then, and he just grins.