Feeling angsty. And gruesome-y. Enjoy!
…
It's no secret that Sherlock Holmes is fascinated with dead bodies; to him, they are amazing works of art, like the pieces of an intricate puzzle, waiting to be put back together again (sometimes in the literal sense). He loves the way they lie, limp, lifeless, cold, draped over furniture, across stone floors and hung from staircases, patterns of ruby-red blood leaving beautiful stains across skin, clothes and walls. He loves working out how, how the knives stabbed, how the poison burned, how the blood dripped. He lives for it. He'd die for it.
However, the day John Watson becomes one of those bodies is the day the fascination stops. Sherlock starts to see, then, exactly what he didn't see (didn't want to see) before; the bodies were not puzzles, but people. Stupid, normal people, with homes, jobs, friends and lovers. They were people, not hunks of nothing, a means to an end, people who breathed and laughed, and watched crap telly, who married and had children, and all that other boring-amazing stuff that he could never do.
John's body isn't a work of art to him, the blood splatter not a fascinating pattern or an intricate puzzle. He doesn't want to know how it- he - got there, lying limp and cold and lifeless upon the ground. He's too broken.
