Hey everyone, sorry this one is a bit short. Part Two will be coming soon, I promise(: PROMPTS ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED! Have a great day guys :) Remember to review.
~TheChemicalAuthor
"I'm sorry I couldn't stop you in time," John said, looking down at the shiny black grave. "Sherlock Holmes" was etched on to it neatly, as fresh as the day it was carved.
John closed his eyes and rested his head upon the stone. He was sitting criss-crossed in front of Sherlock's grave, staining his newly washed scrubs.
He had stopped by the grave on his way to work, he had recently started at a local hospital and thought he'd pay his best friend a visit. It had been two months.
"You know, sometimes I'll think it'll get easier, but it doesn't. I saw someone who looked like you the other day and punched them in the face! Thought you were playing another joke on me." John chuckled but stopped abruptly. He took a deep breath.
"Why'd you jump Sherlock? I could of help you, I could of-" his words got choked off and his grip tightened on the cane next to him.
His limp was back and he was hardly surprised. It seemed like it was only fitting it was back. It left because of the consulting detective, now it was back because he was gone. Bloody gone!
John looked down at the grass stubbornly as he felt the hot tears trail silently down his face. He had to pull it together. He heard a rustle behind him but didn't bother looking over his shoulder. Everyone knew he was a wreck, it was probably Mycroft again, spying.
John had caught the first little camera in 221B when he was making some tea. It had been a week since the fall and John had hardly sleep. Every time he'd close his eyes all he was was Sherlock's lifeless eyes staring back at him. That was something he could never unsee. So it was 2AM in the morning and John was slipping tea. He kept staring at Sherlock's chair, silently willing for Sherlock to appear in it. Maybe if he just tried hard enough, just kept picturing him slinking into his chair like a cat, like he usually did, Sherlock would appear. But he didn't and it broke John's heart. He had to move out of the flat. It was too expensive and with Sherlock gone, it was too painful to even look at his chair. He glanced away and looked at Sherlock's skull on the mantel. He could swear, it was looking at him. "That's how Sherlock will look soon," John groaned and put his head in his hands. But just as quick, he looked back up. There was definitely something in the skull. He got up and moved closer. A blinking red light stared, blinking back at him. With a growl he ripped the camera from the wall and said out loud, "Mycroft, stop bugging the bloody flat! There's no point anymore. Sherlock's gone." And then, surprising himself he said in a lifeless tone, "He's dead." He shut his eyes tight, pretending that the tears squeezing out from his firmly shut lids weren't there, that his best friend wasn't dead, that he wasn't alone with just the memories again.
Over the next 2 months, John kept finding the video cameras everywhere, and was scandalized to find one in the mirror in the bathroom. He was tired of Mycroft spying on him.
So when he heard the rustling of leaves behind him, he thought nothing of it. The noise kept getting closer and closer, the crackle of leaves here, a strange chuckling there. John was furious.
"Oh so yer laughing at me now!" He exclaimed angry, spinning around to face the spy. But strangely no-one was there. He looked around the graves suspiciously, but just the usual headstones, nothing special. His eyes scanned over them once more, feeling as if something was off. Wait, was that angel headstone looking at him?
John could of sworn that it had its head in its hands before; and it definitely didn't have its hand out towards John before. It was only 10 feet away, the grass surrounding it crushed. Was it...moving? Preposterous! John, feeling very foolish, turned back to Sherlock's headstone. He heard the noise again, the ruffling sound. His head jutted quickly back to the angel. He made a noise in the back of his throat.
The angel's face was twisted in a grotesque snarl, it's hands clawing towards him. It was now 8 feet away! John backed up slowly, terrified. He blinked- it was quick- but one second was all it took and the angel was closer. He backed up farther, but every time he blinked or looked away, it keep getting closer! He was starting to panic. It was Monday morning, 7:00 o'clock to be exact, no-one was in the graveyard!
"Help, help, help," he muttered, as it kept getting closer and closer. The, John tripped. He fell over a broken headstone and sprawled across the ground. His face squished against the ground and his heart plummeted. He was going to die.