'S'alright, Sherlock. You don't have to look so damn sad, bloody hell. S'alright. I know you can bring back me and everyone else. You can do it, I just know it.' John Watson smiled, which then quickly became a wince. 'Ah, goddammit. I don't think I can hold on much longer...'
John's eyes trailed down to his already disintegrating arm. Half of what used to be his right arm has already disappeared, and his left fingertips were beginning to fade away as well. The gentle gnawing sensation crept up his left arm, and John saw in despair that his elbow was gone too.
The younger Holmes grabbed his blogger's face and rather forcefully returned John's gaze to himself, rather than his disappearing body. 'Hold on. Just a bit more. Keep yourself together, dammit!' John was then shaken quite violently by his shoulders.
Despite himself, John Watson let out a raspy, laboured laugh. Sherlock looked at him like he was mad. The first time he gave me a weird look instead of the other way round. Heh. 'A... all over the carpet... Mrs Hu... Hudson will have a... a fit!'
The consulting detective let out an strangled noise, which was a curious cross between a sigh and a laugh. 'Oh, who cares about her right now? The important thing is for you to stay wi- John? John? Oh, for the love of God, DON'T CLOSE YOUR DAMN EYES! JOHN!'
That was the first, and quite possibly the last time John Watson didn't listen to the advice of Sherlock Holmes.
John's eyelids dropped shut.
Sherlock kneeled on the carpet, holding the non-existent body of his best friend, and was quite expressionless. Then his lip trembled.
A single tear dropped onto the carpet. Then another.
Sherlock buried his hand into the pile of ash that was formerly known as John Watson, and tried to make sense of it all. The war didn't kill you, oh no. Nor did being stuffed into a bonfire. Nor did going through with all the dodgy experiments I made you do. Oh god, the experiments.
The detective tried to laugh back at the fond memories, which somehow turned into a sob instead. Soon, tears were flowing down his cheeks. As much as he tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream. The droplets of tears started falling down one after another, without a sign of stopping. He punched the nearest wall and tried to scream, but his voice was melted by the memories of him and John Watson. Goddammit, this hurt more than being shot. So much more. The muffled sobs wracked against his chest, and the world turned into a blur, and so did all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything was gone.
How could John possibly think that I could put him back together, when I'm shattered too?