Clutching the hourglass like a security blanket, John Watson curled up on his side in the dark, paleness of his bedroom. As the seconds passed, he noticed one grain of sand drop from the connecting tube and cradle against the curvature of the bottom bulb. Even though John was holding it horizontally, the sand kept on ticking, feeling the minutes of his life fading away minute by minute.
Sobbing silently, John rolled onto his other side as he slowly drifted off to sleep, recalling how he discovered his flatmate was a Grim Reaper.
. . . . .
"What do you mean you're the Grim Reaper?" John bellowed a laugh, "You are honestly joking right now. Are you drunk?"
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, tilting his head at the response he was not expecting coming from the man with the death sentence. "First off, there are several Grim Reapers, not just one like the human race writes about in literature." Crossing the room to the human, the air around them felt like ice, piercing John through his skin. John noticed, however, that Sherlock seemed unaffected by the cold. "Secondly," the Grim Reaper continued, "We are assigned who we are in charge with before they die. We are assigned them several years before their deaths, making sure that they do not do anything irrational before their date of death, or DOD as we Reapers call it. I've been watching you since you were in graduate school, from afar, of course. We are not supposed to be detected, which was rather difficult when you were fatally wounded in Afghanistan. You were about to die before your expected DOD. A few days off it would have been fine, but you were off by a good nine months or so. Which is completely unacceptable by the Reapers to have your 'humans' die before their DOD, and there are rather severe consequences if this does happen."
John paused as he processed all this information. Not just one, but several Grim Reapers? Being assigned someone to watch over so they don't die early?
He realized something just then; the bullets, the screams, the black figure. When John first saw Sherlock he noticed how familiar he looked, but could not pinpoint the exact reason as to why he looked familiar. He just shook it off as probably a face in the crowd he saw once, but that was not the case.
That figure that hovered over his dying body in Afghanistan that smelled of wet earth and decay, making his stomach hurt when he awoke from his thoughts. His long, black jacket that was far too warm to be wearing out in the middle of the desert. The tall, thinness of the figure that made him look sickly, almost like the walking dead.
The walking dead.
"You were in Afghanistan." John muttered, feeling the colour in his face drain out. He covered his hand over his mouth, feeling like he was about to hurl up the contents of the little food he did have today.
Sherlock gave a rather flirty smirk, "Of course I was. You're the one I'm in charge with before you die. If anything happens before your DOD I am in deep trouble from the higher ups. Also your comrades did not have Grim Reapers assigned so I volunteered to watch them as I was watching you since I was over there."
John stared up at Sherlock with wide eyes, learning and trying to understand what type of man- no, this monster Sherlock was. He held onto the hourglass for dear life, feeling his life tick away. Tick. Tick. It resounded in him, slowly driving his brain into madness.
"Why didn't you do anything?" John spat out.
"What do you mean?"
"Why didn't you do anything to help them?" John glared at Sherlock, tears forming in his eyes, making them glassy.
Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in thought, "The problem is that their life was almost at an end. A few minutes or an hour does not impact Grim Reapers that much in the societal sense. You see, you humans all have a countdown clock to your Doomsday. If it's off by a minute or an hour it's perfectly alright. It only matters if it's off by days, even years. Sometimes there are freak accidents, in this case war, but sometimes famine, disease; where Grim Reapers are too few to spread around. So sometimes there is a lottery to see who gets watched over by a 'Guardian Angel'."
John stood up, staring right up at Sherlock, chest puffed out. Tears were rolling down freely now, but he did not care. "You make me sick." John spat, throwing the hourglass across the room, causing it to hit the wall before rolling back to Sherlock's feet.
Sherlock gripped John by the collar, bringing him up on his toes. He felt his body go colder, shivering violently at the Grim Reaper's grip. He saw Sherlock's pupil expand completely around the iris, making his appearance seem more menacing. "Rule number one: Don't you dare throw the hourglass. It is your lifeline. If it breaks, you're done for. You are responsible for its safety. Rule number two: If you try to shake the hourglass it will go faster every time. Rule number three: I don't make up the rules for Death. They were created before you pests were even roaming this planet. So suck it up, it is life. Get over it."
After Sherlock's spiel, he let go of his grip on John, causing the veteran to stumble a bit. Picking up the hourglass, Sherlock noticed a little crack in the bulb. Sighing, he closed his eyes, kissing the glass until it healed perfectly, not leaving any signs of damage. Shoving it to John, Sherlock walked past him towards his bedroom.
"Don't you dare ask me any more questions about death." He said with finality, entering his chambers before closing the door behind him.
. . . . .
John awoke to the sound of a violin string being tuned, eventually turning into a melody. It was a rather light melody, considering Sherlock was a man of Death. John slowly got out of bed, and sat his hourglass on the nightstand, feeling the weight with him as he walked down the stairs from his bedroom to the living room where the slender figure was playing. Sherlock's hands caressed the neck of the instrument as his other hand slid the bow across the strings, creating harmonious music. John could not help but smile, feeling his heavy heart alleviated even for the briefest of moments.
When the song was finished, Sherlock turned around to see the human watch him play. "Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worte Op. 62 Number 1." Sherlock quickly chipped as John tried to process the information quickly. "I hope your sleep was restful as it could be, considering the circumstances."
John blankly stared at Sherlock, nodding slowly to his comment. "Had nightmares, could've been worse." He walked towards the kitchen, putting the kettle on to make himself a cup of tea. Sighing heavily, he walked back into the living room where Sherlock was, sat down on his chair, and opened yesterday's newspaper that he never did get a chance to read last night.
Just before he could read the top stories, there was a light rapping at the door. Sherlock sat his violin in one of the free chairs, bolting down the steps two at a time. John folded up his newspaper, wondering who it would be this early in the morning. Standing up and moving towards the window, John noticed a police cruiser outside. Was Sherlock in trouble? Hell, was he in trouble for some reason? Before John could ask, his flatmate came back up the stairs with company in tow.
Sherlock strode towards the human with long, graceful strides. The guest behind him was of medium build with short, grey hair. John assumed he was older, probably around his age or older. "John, Lestrade. Lestrade, John. Let's keep pleasantries short, alright?" Sherlock stated, walking to the kitchen to grab some files.
Lestrade beamed, walking up to John and shaking his hand. "Pleasure to meet you. Sherlock has been telling me all about you."
John flustered, "All about me- Wait are you going to arrest me?"
The grey-haired man laughed, taking off his leather gloves and jacket before sitting himself down on the chesterfield, "Of course not. I'm a detective, but I also work for the Grim Reaper Investigation Services." He chuckled, crossing his legs to make himself more relaxed.
John processed the information for several moments before asking, "So are you a Grim Reaper?"
"Me? A Reaper? Nah. I know about them since I started working in Scotland Yard, but I am definitely not one. Purely human." The police man stated, twiddling his thumbs.
Sitting up, John asked another question, "So are you being watched by them or something?"
Just before Lestrade was about to answer, Sherlock came back into the room with files in hand. Staring at John, he answered, "He helps us with cases. Lost Reapers, Reapers that vanish mysteriously; anything to do with Reapers Lestrade helps us out." He passed the files to the detective, "Back to why you are here. Here's some information about the rouge Reaper that is running about the United Kingdom. Last I heard he was close to Glasgow."
"Thanks Sherlock." Lestrade leafed through the file quickly before adding, "I almost forgot: There is a case we'd like you to work on. Involves suicides; however the department, as well as the public think otherwise."
Sherlock smiled, feeling rather excited, "So you're saying it's probably a serial killer?"
"You tell me." Lestrade huffed, getting up to put on his jacket.
Sherlock jumped for joy, pulling up John and whirled him around the room, "Did you hear John! A serial killer! This is better than Christmas."
John felt green, "If you think killing someone is like Christmas, then sure."