Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Boys
What a pair they had made, her boys.
One as active and dramatic as you could find—throwing himself and his things all about—the other as quite and still as he could make himself.
One drew attention in his hectic, brilliant way, while the other was so calm and controlled that he drew attention not meaning to.
One was a quite a fine actor; the other could rarely stand to be anything other than what he was.
They didn't always get on, but what pair of boys ever does? Hours of gunshots or screeching violin or stomping about would eventually end with a single, almighty bellow, or footsteps down the stairs and out the door. There was annoyance and coldness, disappointment and disregard, but neither of them really wanted to leave. As different as they were, you couldn't find a better team.
One talked, and the other listened.
One lead, and the other followed.
One doubted, and the other believed.
One made grand leaps from tiny details, which the other sometime challenged and sometimes marveled at.
When times got rough, one fought for her while the other cared for her.
Now, all that had changed.
Both had fallen.
Both were gone from the flat.
Both were cold and distant.
Both had been hurt beyond repair.
She had lost them both.