My Hope Torn Apart
He has seen her work hundreds of times. He had studied every brush stroke. He could see them perfectly as if she had painted them across his brain. Sherlock could reproduce them if he wanted, but they would lack the spark of Irene's paintings. So he keeps them in his mind and they swirl across his dreams.
When he and Joan enter the room he sees the paintings first. They are everywhere in the room. On the walls, on easels and some leaning against tables. The sun shines through all the windows illuminating them. Paint is everywhere and so are brushes and other items used in painting. Normally when he enters a room he immediately scans it. Searching, categorizing, and filing away information for later.
But he is only staring at the paintings. His breath stops and everything else fades away except for the splashes of color against white canvas.
He knows that style. Has spent hours staring at it. Days.
So he knows before he sees her blonde hair. Before she turns around and he sees her face.
Irene.
His brain feels like it is shutting down. A feeling he is not used to. He can't understand how she is here. It should not be possible. It can't be.
But he finds that he doesn't care.
And suddenly he is striding across the floor towards her, her name on his lips.
She is looking at his now, eyes wide. She stands up, a paintbrush still clasped in her hand. The entire room smells like paint. And he can see it speckled across her white shirt. She had always wore a white shirt to paint but always managed to get paint everywhere. She even has blue paint on her bare feet.
She has not said anything yet, but he hasn't said anything either, besides her name, which he repeats again. She smiles up at him. And he can't believe she is here, standing so close to him.
He is reaching out a hand to touch her check when Joan shouts his name.
He stops, hand still out. He turned to Joan, her face showing concern and shock. She steps towards him, slowly and carefully like he is a spooked animal.
"Sherlock?" her voice is cautious as she stands next to him. She glances at where Irene is standing but her eyes sweep past her.
And he knows something is wrong. Very wrong. His brain is trying to fit all the pieces together. But everything seems out of focus. Irene still has not said anything and Joan keeps looking at him like that.
"Sherlock." She tells him. Worry etched in her voice. She grips his wrist tightly. "There is no one else here."
He turns to Irene. But she is gone. Only empty air remains.
And paintings.
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The prompt was "Irene isn't alive, she's a hallucination" from beanaire on tumblr. If you want you can prompt me too.