JohnLock - One-shot [English]

Goodbye Sherlock

The ball flies through the air. The scene stops. In his head, everything happens in slow motion. He can see it flying through the air, but he can't move. He hears a scream, his name, screamed for an eternity. He feels every muscle, every vein hit by the bullet as it enters his body. Lodged in the middle of his heart, he has no time to retreat to his mental palace. 

Sherlock Holmes' body falls backwards. He exhales one last time. A tear falls from his eye, which remains fixed on the tortured face of his blogger. He doesn't have time to say he's sorry. That he loves him. That he wishes he had stayed. His gaze fades. 

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

- Sherlock... Sherlock, please. Say something. Sherlock...

The police are dealing with the murderer. Lestrade is standing next to Watson. He runs a hand over his face as he begins to realise the situation. He turns his head, Mycroft has just arrived. After all, he was the one who had entrusted this investigation to his little brother. He stares at the body. His whole world is collapsing around him. He keeps a neutral face, but everything in his mind is screaming and crying. He clearly sees his little brother again, still a child with dreams, who wanted to be a pirate.

Suddenly, the vision becomes too much for him. He walks away, doesn't look back. He can't. 

The next few days pass as if in a fog. Molly was unable to perform the autopsy, crying her eyes out, unable to look at the pale body. 

Mrs Hudson remained locked in her house, not daring to go upstairs, not wanting to disturb anything of her tenant's business.

Mycroft went to see his parents, to tell them the news that would shatter their lives. His face was grave, his eyes closed, unable to watch his mother break down, and his father cry, for the second time in his life. 

Lestrade had to finish the investigation, reaching for his phone several times to call the detective, suddenly remembering that he could not do so. 

The funeral was sober, with only a few people present. Mycroft had chosen to stay behind, umbrella in hand, hiding his tears in the rain. Lestrade turned his head, heartbroken by the sight. He approached him, covering the man with his black umbrella.

- He was a good man.

Mycroft nodded. He didn't know what to say, and then he already knew.

- It was not your fault. He would have investigated whether you wanted him to or not. You are not responsible.

He turned his head towards the lieutenant. That, however, would be a little more complicated to convince him. He kept repeating to himself the events that had led to that fateful day, imagining all the possible scenarios in which his little brother survived. Mycroft bowed his head, unable to speak. He let Lestrade comfort him, in his own clumsy way. 

The ceremony ended and the Holmeses returned together. Lestrade and Molly were left alone at the grave.

- Have you seen him?

- Not since... since... Sher-Sherlock died. 

Lestrade sighed. No one had heard from John. He was always absent when the doorbell rang, Rosie too. He hadn't even come to the funeral, despite the repeated messages left for him.

- All right, that's enough. I'm going to track down his phone.

Molly wanted to hold him back, preferring to give the doctor space, but the policeman disagreed. He had seen John's condition deteriorate after Sherlock's fake death, and then his wife's. He knew the man had trouble dealing with that kind of great pain. Except this time, the detective wouldn't be there to help him get back on track.