[Sherlolly fanfiction] Silhouettes

Prologue/In Medias Res -- Chapter 0

(IN MEDIAS RES)
(SHERLOCK'S POV)

0:17
0:16

The bomb was about to go off.
There wasn't enough time to dispose of it safely.
I knew, for this one, there was no turn off switch, I just knew.

I take her hand and we run into the kitchen. I pull the chair out from under the table and it falls onto the floor with a clack.
I crawl under the table after Molly, with no more than a few seconds to bare.
She presses her back against the wall as I pull the leg of the chair to fill the gap once again. It's cramped and uncomfortable; our limbs are folded up and our bodies leant against the wall.
My back is bent-double due to the height of the table. Pain dances through my neck and spine, but I know that will stop soon, and so, I ignore it for now.
That's what has gotten me here; ignoring.
You can't hide from your demons forever,
they'll eventually catch up with you and take away what you've taken away from them. They'll take her away.

We lay there waiting, just waiting.
Waiting,
for nothing,
Waiting,
for something.
Waiting,
to live,
Waiting,
to die.
Praying,
praying,
praying for it to be a lie. Praying that it is a misunderstanding.

Waiting.

It seems to go on for minutes; the seconds scrape by, giving the situation more time to seep into our minds.

It's so peaceful,
horribly peaceful.
I listen to the cars hum as they pass down the street. Listening to the sounds, they're strangely beautiful.
But they're also laced with a certain sinisterness.

Our shoulders are pressed together, due to the lack of space.
I don't look at her, I merely stare into nothingness.

Her breathing becomes shaky as tears begin to roll down her cheeks. Her lips tremble as she tries to suppress her upset. Molly lowers her head, trying not to cry.
I wrap my arm around her body and bring her in closer as she rests her head on my shoulder. I hush her as her tears stain my shirt.
Eventually, she speaks, though it is hard as her breathing is so irregular, "Sherlock....I really do love you, so much...." She croaks.
I find my own breath beginning to catch my throat. I would reply, but the words seem to be lost before they make it to my lips.

She hooks her neck over my shoulder. "I'm sorry, I truly am." She murmurs.
"I know." I reply, "You weren't who you are now." I remind her, finding it harder and harder to speak without making my upset obvious to her.

We were caught in an infinite time loop, nobody else noticed us.
We were the only living souls in the world, everything and everyone else were nothing but ghosts; nothing but shadows, dancing upon peeling walls.

I am not scared, nor sad. I feel empty. It's a sensation of utter hollowness.
It surges through me, manipulating my mind, making me believe that my blood has turned to dust; it no longer runs through my veins, underneath my skin, it shifts, uncertain.

The logical part of my brain knows when the bomb is going to go off. I'd subconsciously catalogued the timings.
I have around seven seconds.

My eyes fall to her. She looked like a porcelain doll; still and silent. Her features are small and delicate.
And her dark eyes, they glisten as they shift to meet with my own.

We sit next to each other,
ready to die next to each other.

and then the bomb went off.
**
The walls crumbled as the uncontrollable force hit them. Nothing could stop it. The furniture rolled and cracked horribly. Tables and chairs were thrown against the few walls it had not yet destroyed.
It hit them, the ceiling caved in, the thin wood snapping with the weight.

Molly inhaled sharply, her eyes wide--
**
The dust from the walls swam around the room dozily as it settled upon the broken surfaces. The wall separating the kitchen and the living room had been wiped-out completely.
The area was a skeleton; the rungs of its ribs were snapped, creating what looked like boney fingers curling around the room. The walls had been stripped, and bricks were scattered across the floor.
Books,
letters,
objects,
photographs,
all lay in the rubble.
These memories, now slick with a heavy, grey dust.
Shards of glass stuck in the carpet which had been brutally torn from the floorboards like skin with a blade.

Their pallor appeared transparent against the thick, scarlet liquid escaping their bodies.
If you did not see the blood, they merely appeared to be asleep. Her head resting on his chest and his arm around her body.
Peacefully, asleep.
Merely asleep.

Nothing in the room was living.
Everyone and everything were nothing more than ghosts; nothing more than shadows dancing upon peeling walls.
**
Sherlock dropped the wooden hand with a sharp breath as his brain came back online. The images cut out, causing a numb sensation within his temples.

He saw himself die,
but it was not just him;
he saw her die too.