John stood in the doorway of the too white hospital room and closed his eyes. He raised both hands, and when his eyelids fluttered open, he took in the tremor-less hands, and sighed.
Moriarty was gone. Mary was gone. And Sherlock? Sherlock was gone too.
Each day marked another twenty-four hours in which there were no signs that Sherlock Holmes would wake up. There was no twitching, no mumbling- not even any movement behind his eyelids. He couldn't breathe on his own and every heart-beat was watched like it was anticipated to be his last.
John was beginning to wonder if he was sitting next to a person, or what was left of his body.
The possibility was cruel enough to destroy him, and John now keenly understood religion. It would be a wonderful thing, if some higher power was listening, that John could beg for Sherlock's life. To put his hands together and pray, perhaps offer something in return for his prayer granted.
But Sherlock's drama and wit and laughter would not be given back by him silently asking for hours on end.
John hoped there was something more out there, a greater being not bound by the laws of Earth. A being John cursed and screamed at 'til his throat burned and he had no words left. A being he yelled to about the injustice of it all and dammit why, that of all the people on the planet, himself included, why was Sherlock the one broken. Because that's what he was; broken. And despite desperately wishing otherwise, sometimes broken things can't be fixed.
YOU ARE READING
A Desperate, Painful Kind of Love
Fiksi PenggemarJohn watches Sherlock in the hospital room as his heart gives out again and again, and mourns the loss of his best friend. He knows it's asking too much but - one more miracle, Sherlock. Just one more. Please.
