A/N - short, random burst of angst! I hope this never happens in any way in the show - it would be far too upsetting!
Warning: contains character death...
Reviews welcomed. I would say enjoy! but it feels like the wrong sentiment...
Sherlock spotted the bloodied body the instant he stepped through the door. Mangled, twisted up on itself. The limbs bent at unnatural angles into an awkward, irregular shape. He had known it would be there of course. He had observed all the clues.
A smug smile began to unfurl across his features. It froze as he caught up with the information his eyes relayed. He had observed all the clues. But not one of the clues had hinted at this outcome. Not one of the clues had led him to this conclusion. Not one of the clues had prepared him.
Not one of them.
He recognised the form now, lying prone in a slowly spreading crimson tide. He recognised the Savile Row tailoring, he recognised the bespoke leather briefcase… he recognised sleek black outline of the ever-present umbrella.
He fancied that perhaps he even recognised the metallic tang of his blood in the air. Like for like, something his body recognised more than his mind.
There was nothing to be done now. His mind ran over the shattered, savaged anatomy. It was over, there was nothing anyone could do now. Not even John.
He hadn't been expecting it; not really. Somehow he always imagined he would be just too clever. He always imagined that he would outsmart them, outdo them and outrun them. His enemies. The enemies of the crown.
He always imagined that he would be around forever. His overbearing, insufferable, meddlesome older brother.
But then forever was nought but a childhood fantasy.