He has so much to apologise for, and now he may never get the chance. Massive spoilers for His Last Vow. Sherlolly. A short one-shot inspired by that scene. I have a couple of ideas for more, but I'm not sure if I should add them. I'll leave that up to you, dear darling readers.

To everyone who has read, favourited, watched, or reviewed my previous Sherlock work, on either dA, tumblr, or here on , thank you. I love hearing form you all.

And so begins the wait for Series 4. Lets see what wonders this hiatus has for us. I personally can't wait to see the theories start flying! :D

Gods, I love this fandom so bloody much! :D :D :D


"You're going to love being dead, Sherlock."

"No..."

"No one ever bothers you."

"No..."

Eyes, that's all he saw in his mind palace. Images of Moriarty and Mycroft floated through his mind as the bullet sheared through his flesh, but it was a pair of brown eyes that held his attention. Brown eyes filled with pain, and anger, as her hand rose and whacked him across his cheek.

"How dare you..."

"No..."

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with..."

He reached out for her, trying to grasp the flying hand as it slapped him again, and again; trying to stare into the eyes that refused to soften and comfort him; trying... trying...

"No..."

"How dare you betray the love of your friends."

He takes a stumbling step forwards before the hand pushes him back. The big brown eyes shift and change, turning into another pair of eyes: eyes which looked at him with love and longing, but he didn't want them. He wanted the others back. He wanted hers back. Only hers. Always hers.

"Say you're sorry."

He falls, his scapulae slamming into the hard floor. The vibrations ricochet through his body, blood flows quickly from the hole in his chest. The horrible brown eyes of his "fiancé" fade, but the other eyes, her eyes, do not return.

"No…"

It's her hair: her long, straight brown hair that returns to him as she turns her back. Her shoulders shake and her fists clench, barely containing her anger, her fear… her sadness.

"Say you're sorry."

Soft lips pull away from his as the memory of that morning floats to the surface.

"Say you're sorry."

He hated it, hated every minute of it. It felt wrong having her there, in his flat, in his shower, in his bed. He didn't want her there. He wanted the other one, the one who saved him, the one who's bedroom he had shared (appropriated) during those first long months.

"Say you're sorry."

He never told her, but he had appreciated her giving him her every spare moment. Now she turns, and pools of tears shimmer in her eyes.

"Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry..."

Footsteps pass him, but he barely hears his murderer leave. Only the sound of his dying heart pounds in his ears.

"I'm sorry…"

Everything goes dark. He descends the endless stairs, and her eyes fade... forever.

"...Molly."