[I’ve had this in my head for two days and it seems it won’t get out until I’ve written it. A warning: major character death]

——

Everything happened so fast, and yet Sherlock could swear it lasted for hours. A gunshot. John fell. Sherlock is kneeling at his side in a matter of seconds.

There is so much noise surrounding them. People speaking fast and shouting. Lestrade in the background barking orders. Police sirens. So much noise, and lights. Blinding blue lights from the ambulance, cold white lights from the policemen’s torches. It’s so loud, too loud. He cant’ hear anything, he can’t hear John’s heartbeat.

Help is here, they are tending to John now. Good, it will give Sherlock at least thirty seconds to think. More than enough. Time freezes.

He’s running through all the corridors of his mind palace, opening and closing doors as fast as he can, groaning in frustration each time.

How did this happen? How could he let this happen?

- It’s no use, you know.

Sherlock spins around and finds John there. But John can’t be here. John isn’t in Sherlock’s mind palace. Not in this area anyways.

- Why are you here? You’re not supposed to be in here!

- You know why I’m here, Sherlock.

- Alright then, just… just be silent I need to think. Fast.

He hasn’t time to start running again before John speaks. Why is John even speaking to him?

- Sherlock what are you doing?

- Thinking John! I’m looking for something, anything! I know I can help I must have something to-

- Sherlock, It’s too late.

John is speaking softly and there’s a sad smile upon his lips. Sherlock wants to throw up.

- No, no! It’s not! The paramedics are still reanimating you!

- They’re trying, yes. But it was already over before they started. There’s nothing that could’ve been done.

Sherlock kneels before John. Closes his eyes and yells. Try to concentrate, he has to concentrate!

- I have time, I know it! I know I can do something. John, I know I-

- No, Sherlock, you can’t do anything. No one can. You have many unbelievable things in your head, but you have no medical training. I do. And I’m telling you: I am-

- … gone.

Sherlock eyes snap open. Blinding blue lights, noise everywhere once again.

- What?

The paramedic is looking at Sherlock.

- He’s gone, sir, I’m sorry. Please step aside, we have to take him.

Sherlock can’t move. He’s still kneeling beside John, clutching at his sleeve.

- Sir, you have to let go, please.

He can’t do this. He wants to throw up again, but doesn’t even have to strength to do it. Someone is taking him gently by the arm. Someone is taking John’s sleeve away from him.

- Sherlock, come on, let go of him now.

Lestrade.

- Please mate, you have to let them take him.

Sherlock lets them. Lestrade puts a hand on his shoulder. He can barely feel it even if at the same time it feels like the heaviest weight that has ever been put on him. It hurts.

- I loved him, Greg.

Sherlock’s voice is broken. He’s sobbing. He doesn’t care.

- I loved him and I never said it to him.

Lestrade pulls him into a tight hug. It’s not perfect. It doesn’t help.

- I know you did.

Sherlock doesn’t think. He doesn’t want to think. He just wants everything to stop.

.

I believe, I search, I find and don’t let go.

Chapters: 8
Words: 14256
SummaryJohn receives a text consisting only of a number and the attached message: “[07463 36855X] Keep this number. Hold on to it. Use it very sparingly.”. The story is told from John’s PoV.

 

Just posted the last chapter!

I just…

image

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Thank you for taking time to read this <3

As writing is not really my forte, it makes me very happy!

New chapter up!

I updated

Took me long enough, phew.

I updated :D

I updated :D

I updated my work!

Your John is a bit crazy, no?" - Boyfriend

[Publishing this again because I edited the photo to go with the ficlet]


Sherlock is tired. It has been one year, eight months, twelve days and ten hours since his ‘fall’. He is now on the terrace of some shabby hotel in the middle of the last city his investigation took him. He is getting closer and closer to Moran, he can feel it in his bones, but the lead stops here. He has nothing more than a cigarette butt that proves the sniper stayed in this hotel at least one night. And even with all his deductive abilities, he has to take a break and collect more evidence, expand his information network. Again.

Sherlock sighs, takes a pull of his own cigarette and reaches for something in his coat pocket. He delicately gets the photograph out and smoothes the little creases that formed at the corners with his fingers. He exhales the smoke and indulges himself a rare smile.

The photograph is one of John. Mrs Hudson took it during the surprise dinner she made for the doctor to celebrate his birthday. Sherlock had been very busy that day, cleaning up all the flat - really, he even threw away all the body parts and put all the laboratory equipment away - while John was at work. 

That was tremendously tedious, he murmurs, taking another drag.

John is laughing on the photo and even if he tries his best, rummaging through all his mind palace, Sherlock can’t remember what had made him laugh. But it doesn’t matter. He remembers the sound of John’s laugh. He remembers laughing with him. He remembers seeing only John in the flat and hearing only John’s voice softly asking him to ‘please just for once could you eat something’.

Sherlock takes another lungful of smoke and throws the cigarette on the ground, putting it out with his foot. He spends another ten minutes looking at the photograph, smudging the tears that fell on it. He didn’t even notice he was crying.

He wiped his face with his sleeve and put back the photograph in his pocket. He has to go now. He will find Moran, even if that takes him another ten years. He must. Sherlock wants to hear that laugh again, he wants to see this smile on John’s face again. Just feeling the photograph with his fingers when he puts his hand in his pocket is reason enough to keep him going.

About

Delphine ‖ 26 ‖ France

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