There is nothing happy about this drabble. Listening to heavy music can only result in a heavy heart. I'm sorry :( x

Rated: K


Screams

He screams inside.

It is loud, it is raw, almost primal.

His face, however, registers nothing.

His eyes are wide. They are cold.

They are so clear, clearer than ever.

There is a wave that wants to drown them.

He fights it off.

Years of fighting it have made this possible.

He does not cry.

No, Sherlock Holmes does not cry.

Neither does he scream.

Not like this anyway.

It is but a body.

Has he not seen bodies before?

Has he not seen bodies like this before?

So many crime scenes, so many morgues.

There is blood. Not a lot, but there is blood.

It stains his fingers.

He touches the wet hair that mingles with the blood.

Sherlock, we've got to go. Easy does it, mate. We can't stay here forever.

They whisper it all around him.

They coax him to go.

Sherlock Holmes does not scream.

They whisper, but his heart begins to scream.

He pauses, realising the presence of his heart.

How strange, to have presence triggered by absence.

Goodbye, Molly Hooper, he whispers.

He gets up.

He gets up to go.

He screams inside.