I have a weird music choice while writing this
I finished this I had like the first 6.5 paragraphs done and finally came back to it after a month :p
REVIEWZ!
oh ya I own nothing and no beta so ya
Seven past ten. John should have been up by now. He didn't have trouble sleeping last night, Sherlock didn't hear him get up or anything, he couldn't be tired enough to sleep this late. Sherlock decided to give his flat mate until noon before going to wake him up himself.
Noon. Well something was obviously wrong; Sherlock's gut had been telling him that same thing since ten thirteen. John never slept this late, ever, but the detective pushed aside his concerned and decided that his brain must be wrong at least once. He got up to go check on John.
He momentarily hesitated as he stared at John's closed door, before shaking it off and pushing open the wooden door. John was still in his room lying in his bed as he should be, but something was off. Terribly, horribly, awfully off. It felt as if Death himself was residing in John's room just sitting and waiting to see something happen. The dark haired man attempted to shake off this eerie feeling as he walked over to John. The doctor's eyes were closed and no, dear God, no! Please let him be wrong for once in his life.
Sherlock instinctively reached out and began shaking John; please let those brown eyes open once again. The detective felt his chest tighten when he noticed John wasn't breathing anymore; it couldn't be possible. John couldn't be dead.
Sherlock felt himself panting, panicking, he flung open John's door and yelled as loud as his lungs would allow him for Mrs. Hudson to call an ambulance. He rushed back to John and immediately began to commence with CPR, hoping that by some miracle John might be brought back to life.
Hours seemed to have passed before a group of people rushed in the room prying John from his grasp. He saw Mrs. Hudson standing next to him, he wasn't sure how long she had been standing there for, it didn't really matter; all that mattered was John.
Sherlock watched silently as the men rushed John's now cold corpse out of the room. When Mycroft was standing next to him trying to explain that John was dead and was never coming back, all Sherlock could think of how wrong he was. He brushed past his brother and headed to the...the...he headed to St Bart's.
Molly was waiting at the door with a solemn expression. Her face looked paler than usual and not even her make-up could brighten it up. She bit her lip as tear welled in her eyes, no words were exchanged yet she seemed to know what he wanted. She led him to the morgue where John's body rested. Molly never looked at Sherlock but merely opened the door and motioned to the room. She opened her mouth to say something, to apologize for his lost, Sherlock knew, but she was smart enough to remain silent and just leave him alone with John.
His eyes traced over John's pale, oh God it was so pale, body, never had a dead body looked so unappealing. Stitches were on his chest, indicating the autopsy had already been preformed, Sherlock wondered how long he had been in the flat for after he had...found...bloody hell.
Sherlock unconsciously ran his fingers across the table top and accidentally touched John's corpse. His hand flew back as if the cold skin burned, and he just stared at him for a few moments. He shook his hand as if he was trying to get something off of it as he turned to grab the autopsy report. Sherlock began reading every word on the page, not missing a single one or skimming, like he would with other peoples; he read it like he did a body, taking in ever detail.
At the end of reading the file he merely set it down with shaky hands and leaned against the table as his other hand clinched the front of his hair. The report was awful, something Sherlock would have never deemed possible. It wasn't possible for John to die of 'natural causes' so young, still so much he was needed for. Sherlock needed him. John wasn't suppose to survive Afghanistan, gun shots, fire, torture, an explosion, Moriarty, and Sherlock only to die of 'natural causes'. It wasn't right, it wasn't real, it wasn't fair.
Sherlock glanced up at John's body and began to examine it, the damned autopsist must be wrong. Moriarty must have done something; someone must have been responsible for this, for killing John. He looked over every bit of John, searching for something, anything to prove the autopsy wrong, be John couldn't have just died.
Once again he lost track of time before the door opened and Mycroft walked it as Sherlock was bent over John's chest.
"He's gone, Sherlock, you must have realized that." Mycroft commented.
Sherlock ignored him and continued working. "John didn't just die, somebody killed him."
Mycroft felt a twang of sympathy for his brother. "No body killed him, Sherlock. My men had you two on surveillance, he just died."
Sherlock whipped around and glared at his brother. "If your men had us on surveillance then how did John get taken by Moriarty, the night of the pool? How did you not know immediately that John was dead and do something about it? Why have you just stood on the bloody sidelines until you deem fit to interfere or do a thing!" He cried shaking.
"Sherlock you need to understand there was nothing I could have done. Sometimes people just die."
Sherlock's voice became a small whisper. "John wouldn't just leave me like that."
Mycroft took a step closer to the corpse and glanced over it before returning his gaze to his brother. "Maybe he couldn't help it." Sherlock didn't respond, he just stared at the corpse, not wanting to believe any of this. Mycroft lifted the folded blanket resting on John's torso and pulled it over John's body. "There's nothing that can be done." He met his brother's gaze again and said, "It's not your fault he's dead. Dr. Watson wouldn't want you to pin this on yourself." Sherlock looked away knowing he was right. "Come," Mycroft instructed as he opened the door. "I have the car outside, and Mrs. Harriet Watson has requested to speak with you."
Sherlock have a drawn out nod, gaze still on the body before he said. "Give me a few minutes." Mycroft tipped his head and left the room in silence.
Sherlock pulled down the blanket like he was pulling off a band-aid. John's eyes were closed and he was glad that he couldn't see John's now clouded brown eyes. Sherlock stroked back a strand of dark blonde hair and tried to decide on what to say. Something not stupid or too dull, something John would get.
"I'm sorry, John." There was only silence. "Mycroft said I shouldn't blame myself." This silence was unbearable. "I hope you don't hate me." It came out before he could realize it. He could hear John faintly in the back of his mind telling him that he could never hate him. The edge of his lip twitched. "I just wanted to say goodbye." He stared at the body and nodded before taking a last look, taking John's face further into memory. Sherlock replaced the sheet and headed for the door, pausing temporarily before leaving, never looking back as he shut the door that sealed away John.
Yep bet you never saw that death coming! Still I kill John so often -_-
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