A/N and Disclaimer: I own nothing but the fanfiction.
221B fanfiction for my friend Jim. 221 words long, last word ending in B. And I praise whoever came up with the 221B fanfic.
Reviews would be lovely :)
The sound travelled softly through the dark night; a hauntingly beautiful melody.
Sherlock was sat on the windowsill, a cigarette balancing expertly between his slightly parted lips. The violin rested on his shoulder, bow clasped by slender fingers as he played out a melancholy score. The dappled moonlight danced against his paper-pale skin, dark curls falling in his eyes and high cheekbones casting shadows across his tensed face, making him seem ever-whiter.
He stopped playing, placing the instrument carefully back in it's case, plucking the cigarette from his lips and sighing. Sleep didn't come easily to Sherlock Holmes. Sleep wasn't going to come easily to him for a while, he figured, or at least not until his mind was at rest.
Perfectly he remembered every little detail of the whole event, from how the bombs were planted to the moment John had pushed him into the pool as the blast split into the air. He remembered surfacing after far too long, lungs screaming and blood pounding in his ears, scanning for his friend in the wreckage. He remembered the ambulances and the police and Mycroft telling him they were still looking. He said they would find him; he would be alright. He was a doctor, after all.
He remembered identifying the body.
Sherlock sighed again, and he felt his heart burn.
-fin-