Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Sherlock.
The name itself was so odd and unique, something he'd never heard before. But when John Watson was first introduced to the odd genius of a man, he felt that the name seemed adequate. Sherlock was a genius in every sense of the word. He was exceptionally intellectual and creative…
He wasn't a fraud.
He wasn't, he couldn't be.
John knew him.
Sherlock.
Sherlock.
John's feet were made of lead as he stood, heavy with every step on the concrete. His head was spinning, he had just fallen on the cold concrete.
They both fell.
But John was standing again, moving. He was moving towards the crumpled form of his friend.
Sherlock.
People were already crowding around, panicking, surrounding the body. John tried to breathe, and every exhale was Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Sherlock.
He was stuck in time, he felt like he wasn't getting any closer. But then he felt his numb fingers push at the crowd. He felt himself waver as he looked down at the blood.
So much blood.
And Sherlock.
Sher-
"I'm a Doctor… Let me come through… Let me come through please! He's my friend… He's my friend! Please!" The way was clear but hands were grabbing at his sleeves, still trying to hold him back. John could just… reach. He pulled onto the same wrist that he held onto just the night before.
Take my hand.
Now people will definitely talk.
Oh. Sherlock.
There was no pulse. Nothing to feel. Just cold and silent flesh against his fingers. He didn't want to let go, he couldn't let go. Everything became too slow, it wasn't real.
It couldn't be real.
This was Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Blood was rolling down his face, his eyes were pure, cold, dead. Almost as soon as John had clutched his wrist, someone pulled at John's hand, Sherlock's wrist fell from his grasp to the wet concrete with a thud. They were pulling at John again, he tried to remain grounded on his own, but they seemed so strong.
"Please, let me just…" And then he collapsed, all his weight fell onto someone else, the numbness was overwhelming, he couldn't breath, or think, or feel.
Please.
Please.
Let me…
Stay.
John watched Sherlock's body get turned over so that he was lying on his back now. There was so much white noise, so much movement. But Sherlock was still and silent against the ground.
More blood.
So much more blood...
"Oh, Jesus, no…God, no." He couldn't speak, everything came out in whimpers and slurred words. John felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders… literally. He was so heavy, he felt himself falling as fingers grasped at his clothing, trying to keep him standing. He was being pulled back from the body, but he only wanted to fall forward, clutch onto Sherlock's still form and hope to be left alone with him.
One last time.
John had never gotten the chance to memorize everything about the man on the concrete. He never thought about it before, but right now he wanted to feel the fading warmth of Sherlock's body, the course material of that coat, the softness of his curls. He wanted to see life in those eyes, he wanted to feel a heartbeat in Sherlock's chest. He wanted Sherlock's arms to curl around him and hold him tight. He wanted Sherlock to look into his eyes with their burning intensity and say, John, I lov-
He looked into Sherlock's eyes again, there was nothing there. Nothing behind those ever-changing eyes.
Grey-
Blue-
Green.
Did it ever matter?
Did his eyes ever stay the same colour?
Well, now they would...
"Oh, God…" John felt his heart fall, seeping through his own chest. The only thing to hold his heart in his chest was the little arteries, veins and capillaries attached. One by one, they would rip and bleed out, his heart would fall into his gut. But being a doctor, all of this sounded so improbable…
But why was he feeling like it was happening right now, in his chest?
Internal bleeding. Fatal.
His heart was falling, braking.
Why were falls always fatal?
Sherlock's body was being lifted and taken away, John could only hold onto the ground beneath him. He still couldn't breath, his heart wasn't working. Nothing was working.
But it was so cold…
He stood up before the stretcher was completely out of sight.
Pull yourself together.
Stand up and breath, pump blood, think.
You have to think.
You didn't die when...
Sherlock…
It was raining again, the heavens had opened, probably to accept the only soul that John didn't want to part with. Sherlock would have told John that he deserved to be in hell, and though John wasn't very religious, he knew that Sherlock would never descend to those flaming pits. Heaven was too good for him too, though.
But he was gone.
Sherlock was gone.
And John was almost gone too now. He could feel it. Something was missing, something inside him was dissolving. Getting farther and farther away.
Sherlock.