I do not own Sherlock, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns them and BBC own the right to use this program, I make no money from writing this.
There's not many words that would of described Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps stupid would have been a suitable word, perhaps brilliant. I didn't want to breath again, I didn't want to remove the taste. After 15 minutes of just staring at the figure at the bottom, I found myself leaning forward and simply falling through the cracks of a normal life. I didn't think of Sarah, I didn't think of Harry, for a moment I was in a wonderful simple place where everything blurred and fell apart in flickers of moving shadows and the echoes rippling above the surface above me. Bubbles floated above me, and the tightening of my chest indicated that I was not long for this world.
And then he grabbed me.
Sherlock grabbed me, his features blurred and darkened; he pulled me up. As we broke for the surface, I fell into a darkened sleep. On the edge of death and yet not leaning to far to fall.
I ignored Mycroft's warm embrace, and told myself that it was Sherlock's.
"You don't have to follow me, any-more." I open my eyes slowly and notice those catlike eyes staring down at mine.
"Sherlock?" I whisper, I reach for his face with one of my hands. But I find myself unable to touch him. And he smiles, so warm, so open.
"Why did you..!" I try to get up to express some rage, but his hand is pressed firmly on my chest... but I can't feel it, I can't feel anything but the cold and the heat, and it's all so confusing and... unfair.
His eyes flicker to mine, and for a moment all I see is them filled with sadness before he bends down to me and presses his lips to mine, I open my mouth and he breathes into me again but this time, it's not a last breath, but the start of many.
'I'll be waiting.' and the warmth sweeps me up and the tears continue to fall.
3rd person
Mycroft pulls away, the moment John's eyes flutter open, water dripping from his hair and onto the doctors face.
He's thankful at the least and he reaches for the doctors hand and squeezes it reassuringly.
There's no words between them, just the simple lock of eyes that both seek comfort.
There's a silence hanging over them, before John utters "He's dead...isn't he?"
Mycroft can only clear his throat and wipe the escaping tear that rolls down his cheek.
"Moriarty?" John whispers. Mycroft nods and glances up at the sky.
"Probably somewhere at the bottom of the ocean by now" he circles around John and stares at the body of his brother who's laying on the opposite side of the pool.
He's staring at his brother somewhat broken and then his eyes flicker to John's.
"What will you do now?" He asks. John closes his eyes briefly and then opens them, reborn through each torn memory of Sherlock that flutters into his head.
"I'll live."
And for a passing moment, in which we call life, John let go of his hand.
Wow i'm so cheerful today