The Blue Scarf
Chapter One
A man. Tall and lean. He could see his dark curls moving in the wind from where he stood. He held a phone to his ear, and John held a phone to his ear. But he couldn't hear anything. The sound was muffled. His voice was fading- a memory slipping through his fingers like sand. He could see his face but not his features. He couldn't see his eyes, he couldn't see his sharp cheekbones, he couldn't see the collar raised up that made him look cool. Sherlock raised his hand, reaching out for him. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. There were so many things John wanted to say. Sherlock. Stop.
But he had lost his ability to speak. Sherlock stepped closer to the edge and John's heart dropped a little further. No… What was happening? He could stop him. He could. He knew it. But his voice betrayed him- his throat a tight lump. A step further. The phone dropped from the long fingers of the fake genius. No. Not fake. Never. His hands straight on either sides of his shoulders. He was going to fly. Please, let him fly instead. The reality was too hard. No, Watson. His destination is more permanent. His coat flaying in the wind as gravity pulled his body. Sherlock fell from the building. No. No.
The earth under John's feet disappeared and he woke up to the rain pattering softly on the window. London, ever so cheerful. His breath was harsh and his hands were cold. The room was dark like every night, quiet like every night, empty like every night. John pushed his hair back with both his hands. Just a dream, Watson. A dream based on the truth. The truth of the death of his only friend.
He sat on the bed. He felt like saying his name out loud for some reason. "Sherlock…" he whispered. The name was so loud, so strange. He didn't recognize it. He tried to recall his face. But it was sinking too. John rubbed his eyes, trying very hard to remember the sharp curves of his jawline. He knew what it was like, he just couldn't see him anymore. It had been only two weeks and he was already forgotten. Mycroft didn't send his cars anymore. Mrs. Hudson didn't talk about his notorious ways anymore. Lestrade visited never. The papers didn't speak of him. No more of Sherlock Holmes- the Reichenbach hero. Don't make people into heroes, John, Heroes don't exist, the deep voice in his head said, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.
"You were Sherlock.
You were the unsung one."
