A/N So apparently I'm not past the angsty stage. Sherlock fails to solve a case and doesn't take it very well. This is how I imagine his mind would struggle to process something like this. Enjoy <3
"We found the girl." We were too late. We didn't make it.
How? How did I miss it? It was such a simple clue, even Anderson would have seen it. Now a child was dead, I couldn't save her. I hang up the phone and feel it slip from my fingers. I can all but see the crime scene in my mind, her broken and bruised body tangled amongst the weeds behind an abandoned store. I can hear her mother, her father, crying their pain into each other's chest. I can see them clinging to one another.
I can't breathe, my mind is forgetting to remind my lungs to work. I can feel nausea building in my stomach, burning the back of my throat. She should be alive. I should have been faster. I should have saved her.
I must do something. I need to work. I try to return to my experiments, but my hands are shaking. I can't function. All I can see is her, tangled in the tall grass. My mind is screaming, I should have done better. I hear glass shattering and feel the faintest bite of pain in my hand. I can't focus on it, I can't see past her face. I can't breathe. I couldn't save her.
A distant voice starts to make its way to my ears, but my mind won't stop. Every fact of the case is flashing through my mind. I need to get away, but my mind palace is locked. I can't get away.
I can hear a crashing in the background, my back hurts, but I can't think of that now, I must solve the case. I must find her. She is going to die
We found the girl
Too late, again. No don't start again. No, please make it stop. I try banging on the door to my mind palace. Please, let me in. Make it stop. I don't want to see her, the death-filled eyes and pale skin is killing me. She was so young. Please stop.
"Sherlock?" I can hear someone trying to call my name. I can't escape. I need drugs. They will make this hell stop. No, I can't do that, I need to save the girl. No, no please, she can't be dead. I can't delete her.
I can feel something, something pressing against my hand. This is no time for distractions like that. I need to save her. She can't be dead, I must be wrong.
Someone is pulling on me, I can feel warmth pressing firmly against my side. She is still there, cold and still in the grass. Strong arms are tightening around me. A soft voice is whispering in my ear. She is fading. No, where are you going? I can still save you.
"It's alright love. I've got you." A familiar voice cuts through the noise. This voice always makes it stop.
John. I failed John, she died. I couldn't save her.
"It's alright love, you did everything you could. Just breathe love." I can feel him pressing soft kisses against my hair. The image of her is gone, but the pain remains.
John, I should have seen it. I should have saved her.
"It's okay sweetheart. I'm here, just breathe."
John, she is suffering, I must save her
"It's going to be okay Sherlock. She is in a better place now. She isn't suffering now." He's right. He is always right.
I can breathe again; my mind palace is open now. I can focus on him. I can focus on John.
John, my John. My husband, my lover, my sanity. He is stronger than me in every way. I can smell him now, that unmistakable spicy scent that always seems to cling to his skin. He smells of tea, gunpowder, dust and John. He smells of home.
I can feel him against me, his strength bleeding slowly into my skin. I can feel his well-trained fingers tracing along my spine, grounding me. I can feel the beat of his heart, slow and steady against my cheek. I can feel his whispered words, his lips catching on my hair as they move. I can feel his breathing, slightly shaking as he fights his own emotions to comfort me.
My hands start to move now, and I become aware of pain in my right palm. The glass, I must have broken a beaker. I ignore the pain and trace the muscles of his chest. I can feel my senses returning as I touch him, cataloging every inch of him that I can touch once more. I can feel the moisture on my cheeks from tears I hadn't known I had been crying.
I run my fingers along his neck, feeling the muscles and veins beneath the skin as I traced him. His breathing started to quicken slightly. He is sensitive on his neck, even more so than me. I trace his jawline, pulling away so I could see his face.
He is crying to, I can see the tear tracks on his cheeks. These types of cases are hard for him. He always sees Rosie in the young girls. I trace the paths of the tears, watching as he closes his eyes and takes a deep shaky breath.
We are on the kitchen floor, my stool lying on its side near my feet. I can see the glass and blood from the beaker that cut me. John has pulled me into his lap and is cradling me in his arms.
I tilt my head up and press a gentle kiss against his lips. Its not one of desire or need. I just need to feel him.
"John." I whisper softly, his name bringing a sense of calm over my aching body.
"Hey love." He whispers back, a soft smile pulling at his lips. We kiss again, reluctant to part despite the discomfort.
I couldn't save her, but John has managed to save me.
