John, don't go. John, please. Forgive me.
Look at me.
Those words never actually left Sherlock Holmes' mouth. His lips parted slightly, a quick soundless breath escaping into the wind. Crystalline eyes that twinkle in the sunlight darkened against the slate grey sky. As the clouds swirled all about Sherlock's head, a small voice cried out amid the cold. A small voice that slowly grew louder. The voice that began as a whisper, chilling the blood coursing through Sherlock's veins. A voice that crescendoed into a cacophonous rabble between the flaps of the ridiculous hat that sat upon the detective's inky curls. A voice that screamed one word. The only word.
John.
