You aren't a failure, Sherlock Holmes.
I was waiting in the hall for Sherlock to finish his studies. Absorbed in the text of my book, the sound of weeping and frustration was nearly dismissed by my thoughts. Then a crash of metal on the floor, a loud thud against the wall, they snap me out of my focus. I spring to my feet, and run into the lab. The overpowering odour of blood and chemicals fill my nose as I swing open the door. The room is always so cold… it gives a sensation of mystery and despair… A corpse was lying on the shiny metal table he has, it's bruised down the back… from what looks like a riding crop… small slices down the legs, who knows what he had been doing to it. He often conducts odd experiments for the good of crime solving. But that isn't my concern, Sherlock was crying, his back against the wall, sliding down, putting his face in his hands. I ran over to him and crouched beside him.
"Sherlock… Sherlock are you alright?" He glanced at me and continued to weep.
"John… I've… failed... I… I can't figure it out. I'm a failure." He sighed sorrowfully. The look in his eyes was like that of a lost child. I couldn't stand seeing him like this.
I sat beside him in silence, melancholy filling the air. Minutes passed and the silence grew more powerful. I slid my hand gently off my knee, and put it over Sherlock's blood covered palm. He turned his head slowly to look at me, the expression on his face never changing, but his eyes seemed to smile a little. "Sherlock, you are far, far from failure. You're the world's greatest detective. The most brilliant man I know. This case is hard, but you just need to think it out. Don't make such a fuss." I smiled gently, trying to sooth him. Sherlock said nothing, not a thing. I looked at where my hand was resting on his… unexpectedly; he began to entwine his fingers with mine. The dry blood flaked off, falling to his trousers. His hands weren't strong in the normal way; they were careful, and meticulous. I didn't look at him… rather, I closed my eyes. I could almost feel his pain through the touch of his fingers. I rested my head against the wall behind me as I held his hand. More silence ensued… I could hear the faint buzzing of the florescent lights, the sound of the radiators turning on in the hall. My eyes were still shut; I wondered what Sherlock was thinking.
Then suddenly, I felt a gradual weight on my shoulder, the soft falling of curly hair on my cheek, and a long, deep breath of what almost sounded like relief. I opened my eyes and Sherlock was still holding my hand, now affectionately resting his head on my shoulder. I leaned my face into his hair, the silky brown locks atop his head. I inhaled the scent of shampoo and formaldehyde… it didn't bother me at all. It was comforting actually. I moved my head softly, laying the bridge of my nose on his forehead. Sherlock sighed again. "John" he said warmly...
"Yes?" I opened my eyes as he brought his head up to look at me. But once again he said nothing. For what seemed like forever he simply stared into my eyes, almost like he was peering into my soul. His face was covered in blood and tears. He then let go of my hand, leaving it cold and lonely. But he brought that hand of his to my cheek, as he darted his gaze from my left eye, to my right, then to my mouth and back. He gradually started to lean toward me… at that moment my heart began to race… I exhaled and closed my eyes, as his lips met mine. Slowly and ever so tenderly, he kissed me. The taste of salt and blood on his mouth couldn't take away from the feeling of hidden love, behind that cold, collected demeanour of his. I had felt nothing like it in my life. But as quickly as it had started, it came to an end. He softly pulled his head away from mine, putting both of his hands on my cheeks and gently kissing my forehead. He smiled and put his jacket on, propping his collar up like he always does. After that he simply strode out of the room. He left me in that cold laboratory, with the slightly mangled corpse laying silently on the table.