Sherlock stood over the corpse, black curls falling into his face as he bend slightly over it, closer examining the multiple stabwounds in his chest. The blood had already dried, clunging to the trench coat were it had soaked through.
However, that had not killed the man who was lying in front of them. Fast enough John had found the puncture in the crook of his left elbow. He was fairly sure, that poison had been injected there, given the near miss of the arterie running there and how the hole was slightly bigger than it should be. The victim must have struggled against the attacker. The infeed angle gave them away, that the the murderer must have been slightly greater than the victim.
That was as much as John could get out of the corpse and he wished, he could have helped Lestrade more – though the DI had said vehemently, that he had already given them very much. The analysis of the blood would reveal what kind of poison had been used and that was a huge hint, given that they probably would have overlooked the tiny puncture.
John had objected, that they had a competent team of forensics out there.
Lestrade had answered, that he would punch him if he continued to excoriate himself.
So now they were just waiting for the corpse to be brought away, Lestrade already making phonecalls to arrange everything necessary to analyze to poison.
Leaving John alone with the one and only Consulting Detective.
Sherlock was still standing next to the corpse, not moving in any bit, his facial contures hidden by a curtain of dark hair.
John had just noticed him as he finished explaining his observations to Lestrade. And since then, he had stood there as if he was made of stone, not able to tear his gaze away from Sherlock.
The sudden wave of ridiculous hope tried desperately to overcome the realistic doctor part of him, which told him, that Sherlock was dead and that hallucinating him was a very bad sign regarding his mental state.
But he did not want the moment to end. He just wanted to stand here for all eternity with the illusion, that Sherlock Holmes was still alive.
He did not know why, but suddenly the detective turned around to him, a fine smile tugging at corner of his lips. Approaching John, he held his hand out, palm turned upwards, a silent offer.
John was aware, that hallucinating dead people was bad enough. What would make things worse was to acknowledge them.
The impact of the realization, the logically thinking part of his brain had long ago made, that the whole figure was not real, was not any less painful as the first time. In a kind of way it hurt even more, to realize that he would always continue to hope despite the facts and would have his hope crushed every time.
He did not cry, as his fingers slid through the so solid appearing skin. He also did not cry, as the image again began to waver, as if it was seen underwater and disappeared. He just stood there, watching the one thing his life was worth living for fade away and knew, that no amount of tears and cries could cover the desperation and grief that were ripping his heart to pieces.