Adam's Needle

by Prime-Minister-Holmes

John was only a bit lost. A bit. No more, no less. John was only a bit sad. But that was a lie. This was a quick little thing I whipped up in about twenty minutes, please leave reviews.

Author's Note: There is no, I repeat, no, slash. I was just playing around with the idea of death. That came out weird. Anyhoo, let us tarry no longer!

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John gazed a melancholy gaze down at the harsh black marble stone. The golden lettering scrawled across the otherwise unblemished slab. The play of the light filtered through green leaves, having just budded with the coming of spring. And above all, the small white flowers held in a bundle at John's feet, the Adam's Needle blossoms in a lovely contrast against the fresh dug earth around the unforgiving grave, jutting from the ground in a permanent reminder of what would never again be.

When people asked John about what Sherlock was to him, the answer never came easily. Should he relapse into the pre-pubescent mindset of a tween girl? 'Why he was my bestest friend ever in the entire whole wide world!'

Or that of a young boy making blood packs behind the primary school to become 'brothers'?

Perhaps John should simply refer to indescribable enigma that is Sherlock Holmes as any dignified bloke his age would, 'Yeah, he's me best mate, comes over every Saturday for beer and a burger.'

Nothing could adequately cover his relationship with that man, with his criminal chases, coat collar, experiments, and goddamned bloody cheekbones.

So John just shakes his head, like a world-weary old man reminiscing upon the life life he spent with his neighbor/friend: sitting in deck chairs in front of the lawn, sipping coffee made by the wives chatting inside the house, discussing the ever important topic of who's kids were more successful than who's.

When people asked John about what Sherlock was to him, he just shakes his head and glances wistfully up at the sky, as if the spirit of his flatmate was looking down upon him from the strange realm he could never bring himself to believe in.

And, if that person is persistent enough, he would laugh softly, smile sadly, fill his lungs with a breath of air, and regale them with the miraculous tales of one such Sherlock Holmes.

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