Hellloo there.
So, I'm Ghostgirl468 and I'll be your writer and distributer for today.
I have got some kind of writing experience, with a couple other Sherlock fanfics (feel free to go and read them :D) but this one isn't really very similiar to the others, so you'll just have to read on and find out :)
My one and only Disclaimer is this one: I do NOT own Sherlock. None of us do. Please stop rubbing it in our faces with these disclaimers.
As you can proabbly read, this is just a prologue, because the actual story needs this to sort of make sense. Also, it takes a little while to get into, so please bare with me :)
Warning: Character Death :'(
Prologue
There was rain on his shoulders, clouds at his heels. Dark ones, bulking and growing in an already darkened sky.
Three figures were just visible in the dim light; one lay on the ground, barely moving; another kneels by his side, almost frozen in time; and the third stood at a distance, watching and waiting, a mobile clasped in his hand, a footstep ready to fall.
Sherlock was cold. But he didn't realise it. He was too focused on the dying man in front of him, too frantic to worry about anything other than how to save John Watson.
As his eyes jumped nervously searching for something to do, and words tumbled endlessly out of his mouth explaining ways to fix it, ways to save him, a worn hand touched his arm, and warm eyes smiled up at him distant, but certain.
"Sherlock".
It wasn't really a question, but Sherlock leapt at it anyway, grasping his hand, "Yes? Yes John, what is it? What do I do, tell me, you're the doctor, what do I do?".
A shaking head, a pause. "Nothing...Y-You can't...It's t-too late to do...anyth-thing".
Quizzical glances are thrown at the slowly fading man. "But...?". There is a silencing look between them. He nods, slightly but definitely. He understands.
A frown passed over John's features, and his eyes glazed just a tint more, looking past Sherlock and up at the sky. "I-It's raining...W-Why didn't I n - ...notice that?
Contrasting smiles are shared, but they both warm the other.
"You know, I thought a-after...surviving Afghanistan...running around after...you w-would be...nothing".
Sherlock smirked, gazing up at the sky with him, "The immortal soldier?".
John closed his eyes, "Yeah...Something like...like that".
Sherlock's gaze falls again, suddenly anxious, "John?".
The body below him jumps, and bleary eyes open half-way. Sherlock can still see a light behind them, but it's dwindling, just like the man he is holding onto.
A word is mumbled, "Sherlock?". This time it is a question, without meaning to be. The eyes look at him then, right at him, as they take in every feature, and in turn Sherlock takes in every thought. And with a final flicker, they widen slightly, before sliding shut forever.
There is a pause in the air. A hesitation in which Lestrade does drop his foot, shuffling forward a step, and a siren blares once in the distance as if to remind them that a minute longer could have change everything, and the rain stops, just for a moment, and watches as a soul rises and vanishes. And then everything starts again. Sherlock shakes John's shoulder lightly, "John?". He doesn't expect a response, but it's still feels nice to ask.
Then Sherlock's head drops slightly, his expression falters. For a single second the genius inside him has disappeared with John, and all that is left is an empty, crumbling shell. And then he regains himself, his expression blank, and he rises from the spot, dropping the dead man's hand without a second care, shaking the blood from his own hands, huddling into the collar of his coat, and walking away from the scene without a backwards glance. There are no emotions for Sherlock Holmes, because they are unnecessary.
oOo
Thank you very much for reading to the end of the page. As already mentioned it is just a prologue - but feel free to review if you want!