Disclaimer: I don't think I would be writing angsty fanfiction if I owned Sherlock.

Too Late – Sherlock

Incoming call: Mycroft Holmes

Why is Mycroft calling? We both agreed that we would make the absolute minimal amount of contact, for one another's safety, so why is he calling me now? I pick up the phone, start pacing up and down the box sized room, click the "answer" button and bring it up to my ear.

"Mycroft, we agreed that..." I begin, agitatedly.

"Sherlock, shut up and listen," He rudely interrupts me. I immediately stop pacing and listen to him sadly sigh on the other end of the line, he's probably pinching the bridge of his nose, or something similar. Something dreadful must've happened. My mind races with all sorts of possibilities and little theories with why my brother would act and sound this way. Is someone hurt? Are they okay? Who is it? "Sherlock... John was found dead with a bullet lodged in his left temple early this morning." He says in a sombre tone.

My whole body just freezes, my mind just goes blank within half a second, I just tune out to what is happen around me. I think Mycroft's still on the line, giving his condolences; I don't really pay that much attention. And neither do I notice the silent tears rolling down my cheeks until I click back to reality.

I wipe them away with my free hand; I choke back the rest of the sobs before I reply back: "He... H-he committed suicide?" My voice is quiet, gravely and hoarse.

"Sadly, yes." He mutters back softly. "Mrs. Hudson found him – she got worried that something happened to him when he didn't open the door when he knocked."

Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson found him dead? Oh my God... I don't want to imagine how she felt when she... There was always a kind of warm, friendly relationship between John and Mrs. Hudson that I never understood. But why? Why would he commit suicide? By his character, you wouldn't say he would be the one have thoughts about killing themselves. He was always been so brave, loving, caring, why would he do it?

"There's something else, Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "A note was found on the desk, written by John himself. Possible before he..." He cut himself off for a second. "You know."

He wrote a note? Does it say why he did it? How long was it? Did it mention anybody? Was he sorry? "What does it say?" I don't even care how desperate and pathetic I sound. My best friend is dead, and my landlady was the one who found him. The two people that I cared about more than anything, the people who I swore to that I would protect them, are either dead or emotional scarred.

"It said: 'I just wanted to say "hello"'." He recited.

I suddenly lose all of my balance, I clumsily stumble backward until my back smacks the exposed brick wall. I hit the back of my head hard, and slide down the wall, scraping my back in the process, until I'm just a heap on the floor. He's dead because of me. He wanted to see me. He died just so he can see me again. My stomach churns uncomfortably inside of me, I try my hardest not be sick as I could taste the bile at the back of my throat. I bring my knees up to my face and just let the tears fall down my face and the cries escape past my lips. I realise that Mycroft is still on the phone, and, with all the strength that I could muster up at that time, lob it to the other side of the room with an angry cry, I hear it smash and shatter against the wall.

I lied there for what felt like hours, curled up in a tight ball, just crying. My eyes sting from the amount of salty tears that I release, my throat had never felt so sour and neither has it sounded so ragged before.

The note was about me. I'm the cause of his death. I did it. I killed him.

"I killed him." I cry the best as I can, coughing and choking out more sobs and gasping for air.

John's dead. And it's all my fault.

Mycroft informed me that John's funeral would take place three days after John ... After John killed himself. He advised me to go, hide away in the corner of the church, at the back of cemetery yard. He said that it would be good for me to get some closure, but how can I go? It's not very common that you go to a funeral and the deceased's best friend has risen from the grave, like nothing has happened. Not only that, but I still have his death lingering over the top of me like some sort of sick, twisted plague. John's blood is on my hands. He wanted to say 'hello', he missed me – and God knows how much I desperately missed him.

I decided not to go, for the sake and sanity of those we were actually invited. I told Mycroft that he had to go in my place, he didn't receive an invite but he used the excuse that he wanted to pay his respects to John. He was, after all, a friend of John's, even though Mycroft treated him like a spy with a constant mission to make sure I was fine. As long as he doesn't act like an insensitive, arrogant arse then it should be fine.

Afterwards, he told me about the event. Many people attended, which doesn't surprise me. John had friends at the Yard, his old Rugby club, the army, Bart's, even people he only met once on a case, they would be idiots if they didn't want to attend his funeral. Mycroft also informed me that it was a closed casket, but there was a picture of John smiling, he told me that he looked years younger – a statement in which my brother is correct. John always did look younger when he smiled, and he sounded so careless when he laughed – properly, not sarcastically. Mycroft also stated that a man named William Murray (or Bill, as he's commonly known by others) gave the grievance speech, saying he was a good man, and he will never be forgotten. John mentioned Murray a couple of time, very briefly, only to tell me that he was the orderly that saved his life in Afghanistan.

Murray's wrong. John wasn't a good man; he was the best man that I have ever known.

I went to visit his grave a week after the funeral was held. It took a while for me to gather by bearings and make sure I didn't break down as soon as I even thought about visiting. I – unlike John – never suffered from nightmares or flashbacks, I hardly ever slept, therefore no nightmares. But after I was told of John's death, all that my nights consisted was memories of all the adventures and thrills we experienced together ... and all of the times that I let him down or hurt him. I would wake up at ungodly hours of the night, drenched in my own sweat that mixed with my tears, gasping for air. Not for one second did John ever leave my mind. For me to clear my conscience, I have to do this. I have to say sorry or say goodbye to him, I know not physically but talking to a grave where he's buried six feet below is my best shot. But not matter how preparation I did, nothing prepared me for the sight I was about to witness.

At first sight his grave looks peaceful and quaint; it was just a normal, plain, coal black headstone, but the grave had many bouquets neatly arranged on top of the soil, it was sheltered by an great old oak tree shedding its autumn leaves just in time for the new season, and along with it, it came with the most fantastic view that you could wish for. Looking out over to the horizon, you would be able to see the beautiful mix of ruby-red's, orange and gold's in the sky as the sun began to fall in the distance, pine three-seated benched with small bundles of different assorted coloured flowers beside them, and an red roofed oval wooden bandstand not too far away – 35 yards away by my guessing. It was ... breathtakingly stunning. I suspect that Harriet picked this prime spot out, I have only ever met her personally once, but you can tell by the way she holds herself and the way she organises her bag calls out to me that she was a perfectionist. And that she only ever wanted the best for her younger brother.

The scene around me is distracting from what I originally came to do. I have to say it. I cough awkwardly to kick myself back to real world and looked down at his headstone. Written in bold, gold lettering against the coal, black marble it said;

Dr. John H. Watson

Beloved son and brother

A true friend

And a faithful comrade

Each word hits me like a ton of bricks landing on my chest. He was somebody's son, somebody's brother, a fellow comrade in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, my friend. He's gone, and he's never coming back.

"I'm so sorry, John." I mutter, averting my eyes away and holding back sobs with all of my strength. "I should've never – I should've –" I take a deep breath and roll my head up to the rich ruby-red sky. "What I mean is that ... I shouldn't have left, I shouldn't have made you believe that I was dead. Or I should've come back sooner, or told you what the plan was at the beginning so you wouldn't have felt like this. This is my fault, and I am honestly, deeply, and truly sorry." I clench my fist and screw my eyes shut. "You were always the better man out of the two of us; you were kind, considerate, loving, caring, loyal, and a little overprotective," I let out a low, sad chuckle, knowing that he would've done the same if he was here – or growl at me and get all defensive. "You knew what people were like with their emotions, you were able to connect to the victims' families, their partners, their flatmates and care for them, way better from when I tried to. You understood it a lot better than I did." A thought entered my head and it just has to be said. "However did you put up with me? People ... despised me. I insulted your intellect on a daily basis, I'm pretty sure I messed up of your relationships then I would care to admit, and I ran off from you ... more than enough time. I didn't deserve you, I took advantage of you." Now the tears started to fall. "I should be the one in that coffin, not you. People need you here, John, I need you. Desperately."

More tears begin to roll down my cheek, my hand absent-mindedly combs through my mop of unruly, heavy, raven curls. My knees give way and I tumble to the sodden ground and my forehead gentle rests against the gravestone. My cries start off silently but as time dragged on the darkness started to consume the world around me and the cemetery lights switched on, they started to get louder and more strangled. I can only just see his name through my clouded eyes, my shaking fingers trace over his John's name (like that's going to magically bring him back!) "I'm sorry, John. I am so, so, so sorry."

I could say as many apologises as I wanted, for as long as I wanted, as desperately as I wanted, and I still wouldn't bring him back nor could I ever deserve him.

I was too late to save him, now I pay the price.

A.N. Thank you for reading, I'm thinking of writing another chapter to this, but I'm not 100% sure. Let me know if you think I should.

Any grammar, punctuation, continuity mistakes let me know. And constructive criticism is welcome.