9.20pm
He ran.
Though he would probably never admit to it, Sherlock Holmes had been terrified three times in his adult life. The first time had been when John had been kidnapped by the Chinese traders who were under the impression that his companion was indeed the great Sherlock Holmes. A rather generous observation in John's favour, however ridiculously inaccurate, obviously. Nevertheless, coming back to the apartment at night to find it empty, the yellow numbers spray-painted on his windows still sent a chill down his spine to this day.
It was also the night he realised just how attached he had become to this man.
The second time had been when John had stepped out from behind his hiding spot, hands in his pockets and wearing an incredibly controlled poker face, all while standing next to the pool in which Carl Powers had drowned as a kid. Sherlock's logic had done a backwards somersault, not believing what it had seen. For a moment or two, he truly believed Moriarty's identity had been hidden inside John all this time. As frightening as the thought had been, shame had dominated his mind shortly after when he realised that John was only a puppet in the consulting criminal's game.
The third time had been the Baskervilles case. His common instinct and knowledge had been overruled, which to Sherlock had meant a violent shift in his entire belief system, like a glass of water being turned upside down, the contents spilling everywhere before your brain had time to process the fact that you'd need something to soak it up with. The event had shocked him to his core, even if it had turned out to be something as simple as "just being drugged". He would probably never want to admit being so afraid that night, least of all to John.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear, Sherlock thought grimly, picking up the pace. Of all possible outcomes, he had never considered this. In fact, the concept of a bargain with a demon didn't even belong in any plausible scenario, let alone an imaginary one. Demons didn't exist anywhere except within the darkest of fairy tales. That being said, the mind is a powerful thing, and a dangerous weapon if used right. Logic didn't necessarily have to be a contributing factor. He felt a burning in his lungs, his mouth as dry as paper, yet he kept himself going, barely keeping control of his limbs. It was a matter of life and death, and Sherlock was currently losing. He hated to lose.
It took too long to get to the woods, and even longer to navigate through the trees. He sometimes had a split second in which he would curse his mind for coming up with all these short cuts, regardless of how helpful they turned out in the end. You didn't look too inconspicuous when stumbling towards a crime scene covered from head to toe in scrapes and cuts; a theory that had been proven many times by Sherlock himself, sometimes with John as a co-star. Just thinking the name of his partner in crime made him run even faster, if such a thing was possible. He recognised the thrill of adrenaline rushing through him immediately and made sure to abuse it to the point of exhaustion. Of course, as fate would have it, running with such an uncontrolled speed could only result in the inevitable collision with a tree. Quickly, Sherlock flung himself sideways at the last minute, only to stumble over a root clawing it's way up from below the earth. He had no time to shoot it a dirty look, only got himself up and ran faster, harder.
His legs were threatening to give in when he finally saw the fields through the trees, and the crossroads that separated them. Two figures stood in the middle, the male with a hand placed on a cane (Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at the sight of the damned, crippling thing). John seemed to be finalizing the contract with the demon; An attractive woman, who bore a resemblance to a familiar face that he couldn't place, was looking hungrily at John, her head tilted to the side in a flirtatious manner. She suddenly placed her hands gently at each side of his face and leaned in to kiss him.
Time stood still as Sherlock broke out of the woods, immediately rooted to the spot as he spotted the scene that unfolded before him. Confused and terrified, he gasped violently for his breath, fighting what felt like his lungs caving in. The woman, demon, was kissing John for all he was worth, as if he was some sort of price to be won. At first sight to any unknowing onlookers, the action was almost romantic, had it not been for the reaction of the counterpart. John had immediately frozen the moment the demon had placed her lips on his. Instead of responding like he normally would, with a vigour, intensity and far too much sensitivity for Sherlock to comprehend, he stood amazingly still, his entire body shivering with control worthy of a priest put under temptation. The hand that held the cane tightened dangerously, became an off-coloured white that showed no life. Sherlock felt a short twinge of pride, but it was quickly replaced with revolt over the demon basically contaminating his property, his John. His mind was spinning out of control, refusing to accept the fact that he had in fact arrived precisely 2.4 seconds too late to fix everything. Sherlock Holmes was rarely late. He would always arrive at the proper moment, make use of his deductive skills and let that be that. When he wasn't on time, it had almost always been at the cost of someone else's life: more than one time John's life had been on the line. He was horrified that John might not be possible to save this time.
After what felt like an eternity, but had in reality lasted mere seconds, John and the demon broke apart. She leaned close near John's ear, and Sherlock swore that he could hear them both, even though he was standing more than a few feet away. "Thank you," she purred seductively. John's fists clenched and tightened. "For what?" he breathed shakily, no doubt wondering why a woman such at herself would ever willingly place her lips on his. She only smirked at him knowingly, her eyes wandering from his face and landing upon Sherlock, who immediately felt the shiver of ice cold water running down his back. He remembered her face right then and there: she had moved in not far from Baker Street two years ago, and Sherlock had seen her several times in the same locations as John, though not always with both present at the same time. She hadn't gone out of her way to observe John then, but that was always the case with the cunning ones: the ability to hide in plain sight. She had had their eye on John for some time then, Sherlock thought angrily. The demon nodded lightly in his direction, acknowledging his valiant effort to stop the nightmare.
John turned around.
Sherlock was still rooted to the spot, had no intention of leaving this time. Three bloody years. They all seemed to vanish into thin air as he stood there, watching his army doctor try and make sense of the situation. John's eyes were wide and searching, disbelieving. Sherlock knew he was trying his hardest to put two and two together; He also knew that no matter the outcome, it most likely wouldn't be in his favour. "Ta," the demon said, disappearing out of sight with a knowing wink shot in Sherlock's direction. The consulting detective barely noticed, his eyes fixed only on John, who had ignored the demon altogether.
For a while, there was nothing but quiet surrounding them, save for a few crickets singing their lullaby, hidden in the fields around them. John hadn't moved an inch, only stared at Sherlock, as if he was still debating whether or not this was all real. Sherlock wanted him to take his time, knowing fully well they had anything but that, only it didn't matter now. Just this, standing here, taking each other in was oddly sentimental. It made three years of hiding almost worth it.
John took a few halting steps towards Sherlock, who felt his heart rate rise a little, the panic in him settling in, building a nest somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He knew what would happen, probably before John did himself. The army doctor walked closer, his pace picking up until he was nearly face to face with Sherlock. "John..." Sherlock offered, but John merely crossed the distance between them with a few more steps, dropping his cane and drawing back his elbow to put astounding force behind his fist, connecting it with Sherlock's cheek with a terrifyingly loud crunch.
9.35pm
When Sherlock came to, the world had finally stopped spinning. The only movement came from somewhere in front of him, and his eyes focused on John's hunched form that was practically shivering with rage mere inches from him. Sherlock felt another pang of guilt go through him. They would never be OK after this.
"John, please." Sherlock begged, which was to him quite an achievement in itself. He never begged: only when in disguise or when John's life was on the line. With John safely on the other side of the gun so to speak, begging was moot.
"Don't." The word was cold and detached and fell too easily off John's lips, and Sherlock felt his heart break. Never in a million years would he have wished for his friend to suffer while he had been gone. At the time it had been necessary, but there had been fleeting moments in his solitude, cooped up within the walls of his own personal prison, where he would curse and condemn his luck for always finding such eccentric company. He had a knack for seeking out trouble, and in the end had bitten off more than he could chew in the form of a criminal genius. Or so the entire UK thought, as his actions had so clearly demonstrated. It had fooled everyone, even John. He had considered letting his friend in on the secret, only to realise that the less he knew, the better. The reaction had to be genuine and not faked, and that had been all that mattered. How foolish he had been.
John was biting the inside of his cheeks, looking momentarily lost in thought, and Sherlock used the opportunity to get up from the ground, brushing himself off. He lifted a hand to his face, feeling sore around the area where John had punched him. Good.
They stood at the crossroads for a few moments longer before John finally parted his lips to speak, only to be cut off by the sound of a phone ringing. He held back a sigh and dug it out of his pockets, looking briefly at the display before hitting the call button and putting it up to his ear. "You're too late." he said evenly. To anyone else, the force behind the voice would appear frightening, but Sherlock knew better. He recognised his brother's muffled voice on the other end of the line with disdain. "I don't care." John answered Mycroft coldly. A beat. "It won't do me any good. I don't have a lot of time." Sherlock's heart dropped. John had perfected hiding his emotions from people over the years, and from Sherlock in particular, making it nearly impossible to deduct just how much time John was talking about, but from the choice of words, they were talking mere hours. Hours.
"Good bye." John didn't wait for Mycroft to hang up, only ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He finally looked at Sherlock, who, for once, didn't look like a man with all the answers. They stared at each other for a few moments until John finally let go of the sigh he had been holding in, turning around and walking down on of the empty roads. Sherlock quietly followed, not sure if he was allowed to.
It turned out Mycroft had made sure there was a car waiting for them at the end of the road. John had ignored Sherlock the whole way, and had no problem walking straight past the detective without so much as a glance, moving to open the car door. "How long?" Sherlock asked, finally breaking the silence. John barely moved a muscle. "Three bloody years, you senile git." "That's not what I meant," Sherlock almost snapped, looking over at his companion. John looked indifferently down at his feet in return. "How long?" Sherlock repeated. It was quiet for a few more seconds before John finally decided to cave. "Midnight, all right?"
"Midnight?" Sherlock all but yelled incredulously, feeling as though he was being drowned in cold water again. The world went back to spinning out of control, and he felt all the symptoms of a panic attack building, taking up all the space in his head and leaving him a bit unsteady on his feet. "Why on earth would you sell your soul for barely three hours?" There was no reply – he might as well have spoken to a dummy. "Why?" Sherlock bellowed, stepping out of his usually calm façade to grab John and shake him by the arms, force him to look him in the eye. John stared up at him, hadn't even flinched from the outburst, his face folded into one of contempt and disgust. Time slowed down for a few seconds, and Sherlock used the bid time to his advantage, studying every inch of his face. The lines in his features had become more prominent, and there were bags under his eyes that had softened their gaze slightly. It didn't take a lot of brain cells to find that this was a broken man. The hoarse voice that pushed its way past his lips confirmed his theory. "You were worth it."
10.30pm
Sherlock had to suppress his fascination and admiration at what he found when he stepped back inside the all too well known 221B later that evening. John had gone out of his way to stay away from their shared home the first two years of Sherlock's absence, moving into a cheap flat on the outskirts of town, paid for by none other than Mycroft Holmes, as hard as that was to believe (no doubt John and Mycroft still fought over who held the deed to said flat). The older Holmes brother had apparently also had arrangements made to make sure that Mrs. Hudson was never in need of anything, and their housekeeper was currently spending a quiet weekend away somewhere in the countryside with a friend as a result. It took two and a half years for John to move back in, and when he did, he was quiet about it. None of his mates ever came over, nor did they want to, judging from the look they gave each other when they were all out for drinks, trying to cheer John up. When Mycroft had finally noticed how John's quiet behaviour was driven by a motive, his analytical gifts (which were of course no match for Sherlock's) hadn't been able to decipher exactly what the man was hiding, at least until the very last minute.
What awaited the two men at the threshold to the sitting room was nothing short of a spectacular mess worthy of the detective himself, only he wasn't the the one responsible for it. After all, he had been dead for three years.
Sherlock's chair was empty: not even a pillow was situated on the cushion, and Sherlock felt oddly sentimental at the thought of John preserving his private space. The rest of the room however, was in desperate need of a good clean-up. Books upon books were spread across tables, papers scattered all over the floor and John's chair, while random items lay in different piles on the table near the sofa. Somehow, though strangely not surprisingly, the kitchen looked practically the same as it had done when Sherlock had last left it: all of his equipment occupied the kitchen table, neatly arranged to look as if he had never left. Something inside him ached, even when he told that something to back away. Now was not the time for fluttery feelings.
To occupy himself, he walked over to the nearest sofa and grabbed a pouch from off the table. Black dust trailed from the opening when he picked it up, and John was at his side in an instant, taking the pouch from his hands. "Careful," he snapped and placed it gingerly back on the table as if it was highly valuable. "What is it?" Sherlock asked numbly, feeling uncomfortably childish. Not knowing was frightening: it slowed his brain down, made him worry too much that he was missing something vital. Deleting things was one thing, but discovering something new was something else entirely. It was intriguing and exhilarating, and most of all not supposed to happen. John merely rolled his eyes and walked to the other end of the table, gathering up some herbs that had been arranged in tiny bundles. "I think you need to leave." John said without looking up. He might as well have punched Sherlock in the face again.
"No," Sherlock stated, noting again how terribly childish it all sounded to him. It was as if John had decided to step into the role of the parent while he was being the defiant child that had been denied his favourite toy. Surprisingly, he didn't mind his role, not tonight. He would be anything for John if it meant helping them, helping him. "I'm not leaving."
"Damn it, Sherlock, there is nothing you can do!" John roared, throwing one of the bundles on the floor in a momentary fit of rage that should have rendered the detective speechless, but instead only left him feeling more ashamed for his actions three years ago, however honourable his intentions had been. "You died three years ago, and I just sold my soul to get you back, and here you are-" John gestured towards his tall figure "- perfectly fine." "But I didn't die, John." "I know that, I'm not a bloody idiot," John spat. He forced himself to take a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, while Sherlock felt awkwardly out of place to say the least. "I was working on tracking down Moriarty's connections," Sherlock clarified after a moment of silence, not knowing if the information would be considered useful at this point. They were wasting precious time. "Look, I don't need you to spell it out for me," John said forcefully, picking up the herbs that had landed on the floor and placing it back on the table with the others, "His demise clearly meant more than my well-being." "That's not true," Sherlock said defensively, crossing the distance between them in a desperate attempt to make the emotional gap between them smaller. "I had to find them all because of you, don't you see? In order for you and everyone else to live I had to destroy everything he had worked for and make sure that he could never hurt you again." "And how is that working out for you so far?" John scoffed while looking up at him, his eyes millimetres away from narrowing.
"I never asked you to make a deal with a demon, John!" Sherlock yelled in outrage, on the verge of grabbing him and shaking him again. All the frustration and anger between them had finally reached its boiling point, and they both made sure to make great use of it. "I know you didn't, that's why I had to!" John roared louder than Sherlock had cared for. The last time John's voice had been under such a strain was when Sherlock had been standing on the roof at St. Bart's, taking the inevitable step towards breaking his companions heart to save it. Dumbstruck, Sherlock simply stood there, absorbing what had just happened. John seized the opportunity to continue telling him off, taking a step back from him.
"I couldn't do it, Sherlock. Being alive without you made me weak. I had to get you back before it destroyed me. It's why I had to move back to this-" his arms swung out in the air in a hopeless gesture "-this hell hole. I couldn't live without it. And apparently, I couldn't live without you either."
Sherlock had always prided himself in being able to keep even his most surprising waves of emotions in check; However, his mind decided to act differently this time. What had started out as a fluttery feeling became a full-on raging inferno inside him, both hot and cold, pleasant and uncomfortable. The fact that John would lay his life out for him had always surprised him no matter how many times they found themselves in an unfortunate predicament, but it hadn't fully hit him until now just how much it meant to him. Now, with so little time left between them. If he thought it would help to curse the heavens, he would have done so. Instead he only just managed to stand there, feeling empty and full, happy and broken all at once. It was a living nightmare inside a fairytale. "John..." he tried, but to no avail. John had already gone back to taking care of his herbs. He grabbed a pouch and threw it at Sherlock, who caught it numbly.
"Look, if you're going to stay, you might as well make yourself useful."
11.55pm
With their unfortunate deadline closing in on them, John and Sherlock sat in silence in chairs opposite each other after having barricaded every opening imaginable leading towards the sitting room. The pouches containing a black powder called Goofer Dust had been emptied at every window and door, and the herbs (Devil's Shoestring, Sherlock noted, filing it away in his mind palace among his other new discoveries of the night) had been placed above the doors. Supposedly, it kept out Hell Hounds: a creature from the underworld not unlike the terrifying mystical dogs of the night found in folklore, that were usually given the task of collecting your soul when the time was up. John had collected pages upon pages on demonology and the like during his time back at 221B, and only a few of them described the look of a hell hound. One page even showed an unfinished sketch of the beast, the paper having clearly been smeared in blood before someone decided to clean it, as the texture and condition of the drawing suggested. The nearly-finished illustration reminded Sherlock of the HOUND.
None of them had uttered a word since John had told Sherlock to help him set up protection for the night, and Sherlock somehow knew that talking now wouldn't do them any good any more. Instead they sat and observed each other in mutual stillness, letting the final minutes of the day close in on them, waiting for the nightmare to begin.
Sherlock was determined to put every last second of their time to good use. He made sure to study every inch of John's face one last time, knowing, but not yet fully accepting, that these were their final moments together. The expression on his friend's face told him everything he had ever needed to know: John hadn't slept for days, hadn't eaten since yesterday. He had left the cane leaning against the bookcase on his left, using it as an excuse for his vulnerability since the death of his flatmate. It hadn't left his side once since the day Sherlock had vanished. Judging by the way John's hand clenched around the armrest, he would've probably have used it till the end of time, had it not been for the inevitable death closing in on him. Though John's expression was still guarded, Sherlock observed every last detail of his ex-army doctor's life until it consumed him, erasing his own existence until there was nothing left but his own personal euphoria of memories that didn't belong to him, and yet were filled with familiarity.
The clock struck midnight.
Neither of the men moved.
Nearly a minute had passed before John showed physical reaction. His eyes widened only a fraction while his pupils had dilated visibly in fear, the black almost hiding the brilliant shades of blue and green that defined him. The hand clutching the armrest tightened until his knuckles became white, and the lights flickered momentarily before coming back on again as if nothing had happened. He felt the curiosity nagging at him to look up but couldn't bring himself to take his eyes off the man sitting before him. Every second counted. For some reason, he was a surprising mixture of calm and panicked, as though he was accepting his own end approaching alongside his companion's. And in a way, it was. There was a silent plea that had edged its way into John's eyes, begging for Sherlock to understand.
Last chance.
I'm not leaving you.
An unknown sound caused John to react again; the same sound that had alerted him seconds before, and Sherlock was quick to deduce its origin. Hell Hound. It was clear that John was doing his best to stay strong, but as always, the human body has a keen way of betraying one's intentions and wishes, and he went almost rigid as a response to the sounds who were apparently now getting closer. There was a sudden noise near the door, as if someone was rattling the handle, trying to get in. Still, they hadn't looked away from each other all this time, still drinking each other in down to the last second.
"Oh, Johnny-boy?"
The supernatural was known for playing tricks on the mind; Sherlock was perfectly aware of that. It was only logical that whichever force felt more dominant, natural or other, would try and claim what was rightfully theirs or manipulate their surroundings to their advantage. Taking that particular fact into account, it wouldn't have been nearly enough to keep his blood from running cold at the familiar voice that travelled through the wood and into the sitting room, enveloping them both in a dark cloud of despair. Jim Moriarty was alive. But how? "Aren't you going to let me in?" the voice continued, taunting and menacing. John, who looked positively frozen now, showed hesitance and terror in his eyes, expressing the concern and confusion he felt. Sherlock knew immediately what the look meant and answered as quietly as he could, hoping that his voice didn't betray his own fear. "It's not him, John." "Oh, I assure you, Sherlock, it is." Moriarty said loud and clear as though the door had already been opened. Unwillingly, John and Sherlock broke apart, their eyes unlocking and breaking the invisible, protective bond between them. It felt like a little piece of his soul tearing itself off.
"Did you really think it would be that easy, Sherlock?" Moriarty grinned from the door that had in fact been opened while the detective and the doctor had been focusing on each other (Sherlock was at a loss as to exactly how he had managed that). John stood from his seat, shivering like a leaf and turning around to face the enemy, his hand automatically reaching out for his cane, catching nothing but the air instead. Sherlock was seconds away from reaching out and grabbing John's hand to act as a substitute before stopping himself, though it was already clear that Moriarty had noticed the urge, judging by the smirk that was spreading across his face like a grossly exaggerated version of the Cheshire Cat. The fact that his weakness had just been revealed sent another horrifying chill down his spine.
"How..." John finally managed to ask, his voice breaking in the process. The consulting criminal grinned wider, his irises disappearing completely to make room for the pupils clawing their way across each sclera, spreading a thick, pitch-black blanket over the entire eye. "Isn't it obvious?" Moriarty replied, his hand interlacing in front of him to assume the position of a pleasant businessman finalizing a contract. Sherlock had risen from his own seat, his jaw slack in terror at the figure before him. Thinking that the world could be rid of one less monster had had its disadvantage. If anything, he was probably more powerful now; A real monster.
"Now, if you'll just hand yourself over and we'll both be back downstairs in time for tea," Moriarty said nonchalantly while starting to rock back and forth on his heels. John held his head high in defiance, "I'd rather die." Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "That can be arranged."
It happened before Sherlock could to stop it.
Moriarty held out his palm, and the Devil's Shoestring from above the door flew straight into his hand. His foot, that had been planted on a line of Goofer Dust the entire time, was drawn back, leaving a break in the protection from the Hell Hound that wasted no time in pushing its way past Moriarty, jumping on John, who was violently thrown back into Sherlock as a result. They all tumbled to the ground in a heap of screams and growls. "Whoops," Moriarty giggled maniacally.
Sherlock tried with all his might to reach out and grab the unstoppable force, but to no avail. The invisible Hell Hound bit down hard on John's shoulder and dragged the screaming man away to the far end of the room. Sherlock reached out to grab John's foot, but the scream only became louder as a result, as John was now being pulled in two different directions by two vastly different types of strength. It was the unbearable pain in his voice that made Sherlock let go of him, and he watched in horror as the Hell Hound ripped with it's seemingly gigantic claws through his clothes with the sound of scissors plunging quickly through meat and flesh. John roared louder than ever before (Sherlock could make out the begging, chanting, "Make it stop-make it stop-") for what felt like minutes before Moriarty finally decided to intervene. "That's enough." he said casually, looking very indifferent and bored at what had just unfolded before him. The Hell Hound drew back from John, it's paws making crimson prints on the floor as it made its way over to its apparent master in the eerie silence that was suddenly spreading over all of them. Sherlock, shaking harder than he had ever thought he could, crawled on all fours over to John, who was laying on the floor, his bloody body moving in tiny, uncontrollable spasms. It was difficult to tell if he was still alive, and Sherlock had to focus hard on John's face to convince himself that there was still life somewhere in it.
He carefully gathered his wounded soldier in his arms, feeling an uncomfortable stabbing from behind his eyes.
"I told you, Sherlock. I told you, but you just wouldn't listen." The words barely reached Sherlock; They were far away, ghostly and did no damage any more. In probably any other situation they would've torn through his mind, demanding attention to the problem in need of being solved. This time, Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to think or listen. His mind was drawing blanks for once, forcing him to stay in the present, insisting that he watch the nearly-lifeless body in his arms now looking desperately up at him. There were a few moments of silence before Sherlock caught movement out of the corner of his eye and he raised his head to see Moriarty turn around from the bloody puddle, ready to leave. "Aren't you going to finish?" he sneered, surprised that his voice still had some strength left in it to spit out the last word. Moriarty turned around with a surprisingly passive expression and looked down at the human being bleeding to death in Sherlock's arms.
"Nah," he said finally, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Not nearly as fun." He then turned around and walked slowly out the way he had come, strolling through the door as if the visit had merely been a pleasant exchange on the trivial matters of life with a friend on a hot summer evening. It remained wide open, letting in the cold chill and enveloping the remaining participants in the clutches of the night.
Sherlock turned his attention back to John, who was still shaking, his short breaths longer and longer apart. Both the detective and the army doctor's clothes were soaked in blood, and he found that some of it had spattered onto John's face. With care, Sherlock reached out and wiped it away, all while still looking into the blue green eyes. They were wide and searching, and Sherlock saw his own face reflected in them. Did he really look that old? His hand came away sticky and bloody, and he did his best to hide the fear that was creeping up on him. This was the good bye they had been trying to prepare for. This was the good bye he didn't want to wait for. He wasn't ready, but then again, he didn't necessarily have to be. Death waited for no one.
The first thing he noticed was John slowly sagging more and more into his arms, his body giving out bit by bit, his breathing getting heavier, slower. It wouldn't be long before the most vital part of him would give out. Sherlock tried his best to stay calm, even though his insides were twisting like serpents around themselves, tying themselves into uncomfortable and un-unravelable knots. He tried parting his lips to speak, only to find that no sound would come out. John seemed to understand though, his eyes having softened clearly around the edges. There was no anger in them any more: No hatred left for Sherlock for wasting all this precious time they could have had. The detective only had to look into the eyes of his companion to see what only lonely people wish they had. It was enough to distract him from the way John's body was slowly turning limp, the jaw going slack as he exhaled one last time. Sherlock didn't dare look away for a second, even as the last part of life disappeared and he was left staring into a dark, endless abyss.
Silently, Sherlock held him close, forehead resting against forehead, waiting for the effects of algor mortis to settle in and take his doctor away from him forever.
6.33am
Detective Inspector Lestrade and the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes were standing alone down by the river Thames, watching the sun rise above the buildings in the different hues of blue.
There was an almost beautiful silence hanging above them that should have left him breathless, had he not known what the dawn had brought with it. There was something strange and heartbreaking about getting a call from none other than Mycroft Holmes, explaining that the worst possible scenario, the one that no one could have expected, had indeed happened. Not only was Sherlock Holmes back after three long years, but he had unintentionally brought chaos back with him, even if it had partly been at the hands of John. Lestrade knew that Sherlock would blame himself for John's death until the end of time.
He had barely kept his emotions in check when he had entered the flat just a few hours earlier. Sherlock had sat on the floor with John in his arms, the two of them covered in a crimson liquid that made it difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. For once, other people's words and observations had not been enough, but the world had in a cruel twist of fate decided to visually prove to whomever was willing to see, that the two had always belonged together. It had been clear as day the second Lestrade noticed how the two used to behave around each other, and it was still clear to him when he saw how Sherlock and John's foreheads were pressed together in an almost loving embrace, both of their eyes closed as though they had desperately attempted to shut the world out. Donovan and Anderson had tagged along, even when he had begged them not to, and for once, no one thought of calling anyone names. The solemn stench of death had robbed them all of their ability to speak, and Lestrade was sure he had heard Donovan from somewhere behind him sucking in her breath, trying to choke down a sob. The floorboards behind him had creaked, and he knew she had left with Anderson the way they had come, leaving the Detective Inspector alone at the crime scene. It had surprisingly taken little persuasion to get Sherlock to let go of John and come with him downstairs to the police car. The consulting detective was clearly in shock, his movements slowed down and strangely uncoordinated for someone with the usual elegance of a dancer, and he had held Sherlock's arm all the way downstairs in case the slender tower decided to take a tumble.
They had been halfway to the station before he had turned the car around, driving down a different route, towards the water. He couldn't bring himself to bring in the broken man in the back seat for questioning so soon after the death of their friend. The look on Sherlock's face alone was almost enough to bring him to tears. For someone who had once been so sure of himself, so inconceivably arrogant and bright, the man slouching against the hard padding in the seat looked unbearably lost, his features portraying that of a child whose entire world now lay in ruins. Even Anderson was completely horrified of sitting next to the silent detective, most likely because they all preferred the talkative one over this.
Some air would do them good.
Donovan and Anderson didn't question him when he told them to get in the car and drive back to the station without him. They had silently obeyed, Donovan sending Sherlock a sympathetic look before getting in the driver's seat. No doubt she was regretting every name she had called him all this time, not to mention the charges against him for being a fraud. Lestrade didn't blame her. He wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy, even if he couldn't fully understand what had happened. They were all shocked to hear of Sherlock's return, but the circumstances in which they had been presented were nothing short of horrid and unbelievable. Of course when Mycroft had explained the situation, Lestrade hardly believed it, not even when Mycroft had taken to quote Sherlock's words to prove a point: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. It had taken the paw prints on the floor and the marks on John's body to convince him.
The sun was almost up by the time the muscles in Sherlock's back moved. Lestrade made a move to step up next to him but the continued movement made him stop. His heart very nearly shattered at the sight of Sherlock dropping his arms down by his sides and revealing John's sweater in one hand. He hadn't questioned it when Sherlock had disappeared into John's room, walking back out with the woollen excuse for a piece of clothing, nor had he had any intention of taking it from him as evidence for fingerprints, blood and the like. The white and red sweater dropped to the ground, landing in a puddle of water and rocks. Lestrade was at Sherlock's side in two strides, picking up the now soaked sweater, holding it carefully. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's free hand and placed the clothing in it, closing one arm, then the other around it so that the man was almost cradling it. He didn't move, and Lestrade looked up at him in order to search for a response.
The colour in his face had faded considerably, most likely due to the terrors of the night as well as lack of diet in general. The eyes had lost their usual shade of colour, turning into a fascinating and yet depressing grey hue, not unlike the colour of the sky.
Sherlock was empty.