What if John isn't Sherlock's heart...? Oneshot. Warning: Character death.
Disclaimer: Don't own, you know the drift ;)
He had held the gun so steady. A steely expression held firm through the flirtatious interchange and tears refusing to flow freely through the horror.
"I will burn the heart out of you."
Before he pulled the trigger, we shared that look. The look that said everything, yet neither of us spoke. There was simply a reverberating silence and the pounding of our own frantic heartbeats. Just for a moment, I indulged in a moment of the most beautiful and purest of vanities. I dared to think it was me. That I was his heart. Through the dark caverns of his eyes there seemed dot be a flicker of light. Light, burning bright through the cold, longing to burst out. But no. Simply my imaginations. I was wrong.
Sometimes your heart doesn't do what you tell it to. Sometimes it causes you pain. Sometimes it can be the greatest of inconveniences and a lifesaver all at the same time. At the end of the day, your heart is what keeps you going. Moriarty was right. That night, he burnt Sherlock's heart right out of him.
I'm trying to stand firm as he lays the deep crimson rose on the coffin. The rain trickles down his face, mingling with the tears as they finally are free to dance over his ivory skin, glinting in the candlelight. It is all I can do not to pull him into an embrace, but I know it would only break my heart. After all the troubles of Afghanistan, my humanity beaten to within an inch of its life, he has become my heart.
We: myself and Lestrade's team at Scotland Yard, even Mrs Hudson; we say that sometimes his mind is so sharp he must surely be a mind reader. How can a man with his back to you read your thoughts by your body language? Even the great Sherlock Holmes must be incapable of that. Yes – this is what we say. Which is why part of me is not surprised when he looks over his shoulder and smiles ruefully. He walks over, drops his voice to a whisper, and tells me the words I had lost all hope of hearing. He takes my hand, our fingers intertwined, and we stand looking down at the headstone in the pouring rain.
Mycroft Holmes
17th October 1966 – 4th September 2010
The words don't, for him, come easily, and they most certainly don't heal the pain. For me, however, they will suffice. Those four simple words.
"You're my heart too"
So John was his heart after all...he had to be though right?
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