Posts tagged Sherlock
“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night.”
A reverse version of Alone on the Water; John is the one dying, and Sherlock is the one left behind to mourn, to cry, to remember.
Can you… can you imagine Lestrade walking in to find Sherlock cradling John? Portraying the most emotion Lestrade has probably ever seen? I just…
I will not have these feels forced upon me.
God, do you think they even knew it would be their last night together Could they feel it? Did Sherlock see something in John that could warn them? So they could spend that last bit together?
Or did Sherlock’s world end in the bright hours of the morning? As he blinked weary eyes open and turned to his love, only to see the stillness of John’s chest, feel the chill of his flesh?
And hours later, after receiving no response from numerous texts and calls, Lestrade finally arrives at an eerily quiet 221b. The detective checks the sitting room, kitchen, bathroom; even hesitantly peeking in to check Sherlock’s old room.
But it’s the subtle noise of a guttural moan from upstairs that finally clues in Lestrade on the soul-wrenching scene that’s being played out. Greg climbs the stairs to the second bedroom slowly, trying to prepare himself for what’s to come.
It’s no use, nothing could prepare him for what he sees as the door swings open.
Sherlock sits with his back resting against the headboard. Head hanging down, his dark curls covering his face from Lestrade. His sleep shirt pulled off his right shoulder slightly, and his pyjama pants hiked up his long legs from his movements. Feet planted firmly on the mattress and knees spread to allow John’s body between them. Long arms wrap around John’s chest, hands fisted in the front of the doctor’s shirt.
Lestrade take a few tentative steps into the room, shoulders slumping in resignation. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s hands tighten, knuckles turning white with the strain. “Algor mortis would have set in immediately, obviously, but rigor mortis has been slow to start. Probably due low levels of lactic acid in Jo-,” Sherlock’s voice cracks, but he continues on, “in the body. There are still parts that are living, you know? For the next few hours some cells will continue to reproduce, bacteria will survive, possibly for days.”
“The skin dis-colorization is expected, the blood has already began to pool in the lower extremities.”
“Sherlock, please,” Lestrade says, barely above a whisper as he moves a few steps closer to the bed.
“There was a case, do you remember? Of course you do, you must. The extra body that appeared in the hospital morgue, brought in supposedly after that multi-car crash. The attendant just thought the number had been reported wrong, but no, that wasn’t the case. All the signs, all the tells from the body were all wrong. It was obvious the victim had been killed long before the others but the killer saw an opportunity he could not let pass.”
“Sherlock!” Greg finally shouts, his voice cracking momentarily as the tears begin to form in his eyes.
At that, Sherlock’s head whips up. His eyes are red and watery, and his face is contorted in pain, marked by long tear streaks down his cheeks. Sherlock’s chest begins to heave as he takes large, gasping breaths. “It’s my fault! It’s all my fault! I should have looked harder! I should have found a cure, something, anything to save him! What good am I if I can’t even save John?!” Sherlock buries his face against John’s shoulder, pulling his legs in tighter, holding on to the empty shell of his lover, his friend, his equal. “What good am I now?”
Sherlock’s loud, shuddering sobs fill the room as Lestrade can only look on in silence.
“What good am I without John?”
AUGH. the FEELS
no nO NO!! I can’t handle this!!
This was not a good thing to read before work!!
I am crying.