He lowered his phone and watched him fall. Fall. Fall.
And he fell no more. A back-breaking crash was all he heard. Blood staining the sidewalk, oozing down the gutter.
He opens his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, his eyes darting through the room. He shuts his eyes tightly and turns his head in the pillow, his nose stinging as tears well up in his eyes.
He is still at Baker Street, but he often thinks about leaving. But it's not only he who is grieving. He wouldn't leave Mrs. Hudson. Not now. It was too soon. But it isn't doing himself any good.
He turns on his side, clinging to his pillow as if it will fill the gap he is feeling in his heart. But it does not. Nothing can fill the empty space Sherlock Holmes has left behind.
He sits up, reaching out for the glass of water that's standing on his night desk. His hand trembles as he brings the glass to his lips, greedily sipping the water. Water runs down the corners of his mouth, staining his pyjamas. He lowers the empty glass and wipes his mouth, panting as he hadn't granted himself much air during drinking.
He stares down at the glass in his hand, rolling it around in his palm. He swallows and exhales, still feeling thirsty. But instead of getting up to the bathroom and refilling his glass, he stays where he is; sitting on the side of his bed.
Without warning, he starts to shake. He tightly closes his eyes again and begins to weep, his entire body shaking with him as thick tears fall down his cheeks.
The glass drops from his hand as he brings his hands to his face and it shatters on the floor. He's barefoot but he doesn't care. He weeps uncontrollably.
'S-Sherl –,' he stammers.
It has only been two days since - since – he doesn't dare think about what had happened.
He pulls his feet up onto the bed again and whimpers in agony, asking himself once again why this had happened. Why had he thrown himself off that building? Why had he lied? Why had he died? He cannot answer any of these questions, and it hurts him more than it should.
There is a knock on his bedroom door but he doesn't even try to hide his tears as Mrs. Hudson peeks around the corner of the door.
'Oh John –,' she says and gives him a pitiful look. She enters the bedroom, tiptoes around the shattered glass and sits down beside him. She takes his hands in hers and pats them.
'Crying won't bring him back, John,' she whispers comfortingly and John shakes his head.
'I know – I know,' he sighs. 'I know.'
There is a long silence in which Mrs. Hudson continues to stroke his hand. He wants to stop crying, but it gets worse.
His hands start to tremble as he suddenly blurts out:
'I –loved him, Mrs. Hudson. I loved him and he jumped – he just jumped.'
Mrs. Hudson doesn't seem to know what to say.
'I – I keep wondering,' John continues, growing angry with himself and angry with his friend. 'If I – If I had told him. Maybe he wouldn't – maybe he wouldn't have jumped.'
Mrs. Hudson bites her lips, still not knowing what to say. John continues to ramble.
'And I thought he knew – I thought he did. And I keep wondering – would he have jumped if he – if he cared,' and he closes his eyes again, pressing his chin against his chest as new tears well up in his eyes.
There's another long silence, in which John cries and Mrs. Hudson awkwardly continues to stroke his hands. She pats them and whispers, 'I'll make you a cuppa.'
She gets up from the bed, bends down to gather the shattered glass on the floor and leaved the bedroom.