A./ N. Surpirse my friends, I'm a Sherlockian! :D Though it was hard for me to think of a good idea for a Sherlock fanfic. So yeah, sorry my Yu-Gi-Oh! readers, this is BBC's Sherlock (which you should really watch, it's very good). This is kinda (very...maybe) angsty cuz it's the Reichenbach Fall and stuff (OMG I CRIED SO MUCH). The text in bold is what I think John or Sherlock (you guys are smart, you'll figure out who) were feeling during that moment. I dun own Sherlock, obviously, so anyway on with the fic! Please R&R and enjoy!
Surprise
"Look up, I'm on the rooftop."
John turns and looks up.
"Wha- Oh God..."
Confusion
Sherlock's voice breaks, ever so slightly.
"I invented Moriarty. I'm a fake."
"Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up. When we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"
"Nobody could be that clever..."
"You could."
Sherlock chuckles softly, tears now falling freely down his face.
"I researched you. It's a trick, just a magic trick..."
Realization
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?", for one of the first times in his life, Sherlock begs.
"Do what..?"
"This phone call - it's my note. It's what people do, don' they? Leave a note...?"
"Leave a note when?"
"...goodbye John."
Regret
"Goodbye John...", he breathes.
"No, don't!"
Sherlock looks down at the ground far below him for a moment, contemplating, even though he can't back out now. His arms lower and his phone is tossed aside, forgotten, onto the roof as he stares numbly ahead...
'I'm sorry John...'.
Shock
"SHERLOCK!"
The desperate scream cuts through the air like a knife, echoing slightly, as Sherlock spreads his arms out to his sides and slowly leans fowards. His feet fall from the edge as he plummeting down towards the ground far, far beneath him...
Numbness
A body hits the pavement. Several passersby crowd around it, shouting out things John can't coherently understand. All that matters right now is Sherlock. He stumbles across the street towards the gathering crowd. Several people atempt to push him back, but John shoves past them.
"No, no, he's my friend. Let me through, he's my friend..."
A few people move to let him through and John is able to see what's left of the great Sherlock Homes. A limp body, glassy light grey eyes, curly brown hair and a pale face, now tainted with blood. Thick, angry, crimson blood, leaking from...from the back of Sherlock's head, and spreading onto the pavement. But, maybe, just maybe, he still has a pulse...maybe. John clumsily reaches for Sherlock's wrist, grasps it, and feels for the steady beat that means his friend still has a chance.
'Please...Sherlock, please, for me...'
Nothing but cold, unfeeling flesh is felt underneath John's searching fingers. He staggers back as the paramedics unfold a stretcher a lift Sherlock's body onto it, away from him. Sherlock's body...as in 'no longer containing Sherlock himself'...
Denial
A grieving man sits alone, crying, in the vacant room of a now deceased detective. A sudden rustle rouses him from his mourning. He slowly looks up, and nearly cries out in joy. There, alive and well, is Sherlock Holmes.
"Sh-sherlock...", the man breathes.
"John...I'm so sorry...", Sherlock says.
"I...I don't care.", John declares, standing up and slowly walking towards the detective in the middle of the room. "You're here...so that's all I care about right now..."
Slowly, tentatively, as John gets closer, Sherlock wraps his arms around John.
"I missed you Sherlock...", John whispers.
But not one second after the words leave his mouth, that suddenly he realizes, Sherlock's not there anymore. His eyelids shoot up and he looks around the room desperately.
"Sherlock...?", he says hoarsly, his throat raw from crying.
Dead silence meets his call.
"Sherlock?", he asks, more desperately this time. "Sherlock!"
Soon, sobs begin to escape him and John lets his head drop back onto the pillow...Sherlock's pillow. He breathes in what's left of Sherlock's scent, clinging to whatever small comfort he can find in it.
"Sherlock...please, I...I know your not gone...please, stop pretending...give me one more miracle Sherlock, stop being dead...please, Sherlock Holmes...", he whispers through sobs, the emtional and mental strain begining to take effect as he falls back into a restless sleep...
Reluctant Acceptance
At the London Cemetery
John stands in a quiet field of grass, the birds chirping happily overhead and the winds flowing playfully through the grass and leaves. It might have been a cherrful day, had it not been for the ominous presence of a black marble tombstone with the name 'Sherlock Holmes' etched into it in white print letters. John had come alone this time, he didn't want to bother Mrs. Hudson, she had enough on her mind as it is. Slowly resding and rereading the name on the stone only made the knots in his stomach tighten. Sherlock...he really was dead, wasn't he? As much as John didn't want to admit it, with every passing day, the truth pressed more and more dangerously onto his shoulders.
"Sherlock...", he whispers.
It seems like the wind stops, and the birdsong quiets, just for him, just for this one moment.
"You...you once told me...not to make people into heros, that heros don't exist. And, that even if they did, you wouldn't be one of them. But...", John wavers slightly, but continues,"...you were wrong Sherlock...for once, because you were a hero...my hero."
John sighs and turns to leave, before a small, rebellious part of him forces him to face the stone once more..
"Please, Sherlock, please, give me one more miracle, just one. Don't be dead...", he whispers,"...come back..."
How did so many feelings pass by in so little time? John could hardly grasp the fact that Sherlock wouldn't be there, waiting for him in the morning, in the kitchen, doing some stupid experiment involving severed fingers and a very messy tabletop, or sitting on the couch, bored out of his mind, watching the telly while complaining about not having a case to ocupy his time with. Sherlock's annoying, smug little smile that made John want to punch everytime he saw it, he would never get the chance to see it again. He'd never again feel the rush of running through the streets of London, in a stupid disquise, while he and Sherlock chased after a criminal. He even missed coming home to find a bloody head in the freezer. Why was it that the one person who drove him insane on a daily basis, was the one person he missed the most? Somewhere deep inside himself, he knew the answer. Yet, he had no idea what it was. For once, he doubted that even 'The Great Detective', the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective that had ever existed, could find the answer. Not that he was around to even try. Sometimes, you don't really realize what have, until you loose it. Unfortunately, that was something John had had to learn the hard way.
A./ N. What have I done? I feel like crying! That bit with John dreaming that Sherlock had come back... :'(
God, it breaks my heart, AND I BLOODY WROTE IT! ;w;w;w;
I might make another one-shot to acompany this one about when Sherlock returns. For now, I hope you liked this one. :)
REVIEW
The distinctive mud on your shoes tells me that you want to!
Sherlock: That makes less sense than John's emails to his girlfriends.
(blink, blink)
Okaaay...but still, review! (And fav and all that junk. I'm sure you will, cuz y'all are great people. :3)
REVIEW