Notes: Ok, so, note to self and tip to everyone: DON'T SEARCH 'Reichenfeels' ON TUMBLR! Your heart will shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. :'(
This one is about Reichenbach Fall, so *River Song pops up* "Spoilers!"
Ugh. Seriously, I'm having some major Reichenfeels. I don't know what my emotions are doing.
Fix You by Coldplay
It was well past midnight, but he still couldn't sleep. One arm rested under his head while the other was slung loosely off the side of the bed, dangling helplessly. The only sound in the room, piercing the dark like a thorn, was his uneven breathing. It hitched in his throat and he had to force it out; he had to force himself to breathe. Even in the dark, he kept his eyes open. At least when it was night, he could see the vague shapes of his dresser and door outlined by the moonlight. Whenever he shut his eyes to sleep, all he could see was—
Oh, God, it hurt. Every time the images flashed behind his eyelids his heart throbbed heavily. His chest tightened, making him draw his legs up and turn on his side. The room grew eerily silent as he held his breath, trying not to let a sob escape his lips. His throat dried and knotted up but he kept silent. He couldn't, however, stop the quiet tears from falling down his cheeks.
Falling…
Dammit. John turned onto his back again, scrunching his eyes closed tightly. The sob in his throat burned and rose like bile until he couldn't hold it in, and he opened his mouth, letting out a gross, painful gasp.
He held out his hand, and Sherlock reached out from where he was. But they were too far away. Their fingertips just scrabbled in the air, never touching. Never even close.
John sat up in bed, trying to control himself. He just wanted to sleep; was that too much to ask? He couldn't handle everything like it was. There were too many memories, too much grief, too much hurt. Everything was just too much. He just wanted to let it all go, but he knew it wasn't going to happen. How could he let it go? How could he let him go?
"This phone call— it's, uh… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." He should have caught on sooner. He should have stopped him. He told Sherlock to stop, but he didn't listen. He never listened. "Goodbye, John." He tossed the phone aside, leaving John no choice. He screamed.
His throat still hurt from the scream that was still too soft. He hadn't tried hard enough to stop him. He hadn't yelled loud enough. He hadn't been heard. Another strangled gasp rang out and he snapped his mouth shut, clutching the duvet in a tight fist. His whole body trembled uncontrollably, and he tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't. He tried to look at the gentle silhouette of his dresser, or at least peer into the shadows that were all around him. He just couldn't.
His arms spread like wings, but John knew he wasn't going to take off. Sherlock was human, the most human human he knew, so he was going to fall. He leaned over, first precariously close to losing his balance, then moving forward. No, down. He was falling. John's whole body froze as he watched in horror, unable to do a thing. He was too far away. He was too quiet. He was too late.
