The Crack in the Pavement

Angela Laine

Chapter 1

John ran to his friend, pushing through the small crowd that had gathered; through the doctors and nurses that had rushed out of the hospital to tend to the fallen man and secretly carry out the instructions that he'd given them. John took Sherlock's pulse: nothing over nothing. What had driven him to jump? Was it Moriarty? Stupid question; of course it was Moriarty. That didn't make it any easier for him, though. John wasn't ready for this – he would never be ready for it.

Neither would Sherlock – the look on John's face was unbearable – but he was even less ready for what would happen next. The pool of blood around Sherlock's head trickled into a fault in the pavement and started to drain away into it. Sherlock felt a tug as the blood clung to his hair like a lifeline. The pull lessened and was replaced by a tingling sensation that he could feel in his very bones. Against his will, Sherlock's eyebrows snapped together in a frown and he blinked, aware of a bright light hovering like a film over his eyes. He turned his head slightly to look at the now-glowing sidewalk crack under his head. John's face swam through the light and Sherlock could see several different emotions waging war on John's features as the doctor saw his friend was still alive.

"Not for much longer," a hopeless and confused Sherlock thought as he felt his very essence gently floating away. He battled for control of his mind as his will, too, began to leave him. Sherlock felt a curious and needy eagerness invade the shadows of his brain, and he knew it was trying to replace his urge to fight.

A new, harsher light penetrated his retina, and he heard a familiar – and scared? – voice suggest, "Sherlock? Sherlock, close your eyes if you can hear me." Sherlock wrestled back a bit of his earthly sight and realized his good pal John was shining a torch in his eyes. He flinched, blinking rapidly, and John said, "Yes, that's it, Sherlock. Now, listen to me –" there was that panicky sound again – "I want you to close your eyes. Don't open them." Why was it so important? Why would he want to go away from the light? And his best friend? And then – close my eyes? That couldn't be a medical opinion, could it?

"No! For a concussion, you're supposed to keep his eyes open!" said one of the Bart's doctors.

"It's not a concussion. Close your eyes, Sherlock!"

One part of Sherlock's brain thought, well, it was important to John, somehow, and suddenly realizing that there was no escape from the light anyway, it wanted to succumb to the peace of letting go. Sherlock still retained part of that massive brain of his, however, and he fought with all he was worth to hold on to it. He did some quick, deep thinking and came to the conclusion that even though he didn't have a concussion, it was still the wrong diagnosis to have him close his eyes. The light wouldn't leave him alone if he shut off its visible entry point. He could feel it deeper than that. It wouldn't give up. Finally and painfully, Sherlock realized he would have to give up. Sherlock had always acted upon his thoughts impulsively and he wasn't about to break that life-long pattern any time soon. His eyelids dropped shut.

As he'd thought, the light was by no means diminished, but only for a second. The light switch flipped off with almost an audible snap and Sherlock anticipated his impending sleep.

"No! No-no-no – No, Sherlock?"

"What's happening to him?"

"He's glowing!"

"No, it's the sidewalk that's glowing…"

"Get away from it Mag!"

"SHERLOCK!" John reached for his friend's shoulders, but it was too late – Sherlock was disintegrating in a pool of light and John was losing him again. "Sherlock…" John took one last, bitter look at the man's transparent face before he disappeared forever.