A/N: Hey! So this is my first fanfiction for Sherlock! I'd love to hear what you think of it, and I hope you enjoy! This is in Sherlock's POV, and I hope I did him justice.
Totally wrote this while avoiding to stud for finals. Oops. Oh well.
Stagnant Thought
Never felt pain. Sensory nerves are pointless, therefore I delete them. They are a terrible disadvantage. It's a point of view that I see no onward. However, John does. See it in his eyes. The bruise-coloured bags that hang from under them while gripping loosely to the skin. He's terrified by the quandary of caring, yet choses to do so anyway. Caring to me is negated. So I find it odd that I am being trapped in abyss of this nonsense. For I care for John, as some would say.
Now it had come to my attention that relationships vary depending on the person and the contact with whom they are accused of having the mutual bond with. That is what a relationship is, isn't it? A mutual bond? The similarities between the eclectic and the cordial? Certainly you can deduce who is whom. I have corroborated this emotion for which I had no control over, no matter how much I contended it. Never will I understand this particular turn of events, but I can comprehend that this is a conviction to which I will have to learn to accept. John Watson is my friend.
Accepting a friendship of any kind is the equivalent to shaking hands with the devil. The apprehension it procures is abject in itself. It's quite odious, isn't it? Caring is not an advantage, as Mycroft once said. Although he can be quite stolid at times (most times), he is correct about this.
So when the death eater rips through my blogger's skin, I feel it penetrating my own, as if we shared the bullet. His expression turned my own in the opposite way. My lurid response traveled throughout my body, and for the first time, my mind stopped working. I was frozen, so to speak. My insides screamed at me to move, yet I could not, no matter how much I reasoned that logically, I indeed could.
There's been so many times where I've neglected to examine blood as a physical property. Its shape and mask. How it moves languidly down and stings, even when it's not your own. Its colour the sign of evil, if there is such a thing. It's terribly ridiculous.
"John," I croak, hoping for a response even though I know I won't get one. That's obviouos.
Instead, I stare at his pale lifeless face. This isn't him. His blushing cheeks when I make a deduction. His smile I am so used to seeing: Gone.
People die every day. I shouldn't be affected. Loss is an utterly terrible word. It means losing something. But with John, I lose everything important. The rest is trivial.
So I sit here in the flat, violin in hand while he undergoes surgery. There's no point in waiting at the hospital, for I am not needed. I compose melodies of hope. Not because I believe in hope or love, but because John does. And I believe in him.
Because I'd be lost without my blogger.
