And the World Kept Turning Without Me on It
...
In a world where the supernatural was just as normal and mundane as getting the milk from the nearest Tesco, you had to watch what you said. Of course, to Sherlock, this had always been just another piece of evidence. Somehow, he'd been able to put all of the rules the mad world they inhabited lived by into neat little folders of information inside that hard drive in his head.
If he'd been here, he'd have said to be more careful with the way he spoke, although knowing him he'd have probably said it in a really blunt and rude way, so you hardly knew he cared.
But he wasn't, and as John looked down at that bloody gravestone, he just kept talking.
"Do me one favour, will you? Just one... miracle. Don't- don't be... dead. Whatever's listening - make Sherlock not be dead."
The weather didn't change abruptly, either to pour down with Frankenstein's thunderstorms or the shining light of angels. There was no tingly feeling, no hairs standing up on the back of his neck.
Nothing had happened.
Steeling himself, he straightened. And walked away from the grave.
Still hidden behind a tree, Sherlock leaned his head back to rest on the scratchy bark.
"John, you idiot..."
...
AN: Just a short drabble-ish piece inspired by how someone had titled their prompt-fic 'Wish' over at watsons_woes.