"But please, Sherlock, there's just one more thing. One more miracle:
Don't.
Be.
Dead.
Would you do that just for me? Just stop it."
My voice broke.
"Stop this."
I closed my eyes, pleading despite myself to a higher power I no longer believed in. Because to believe, one has to be living and I was only managing to cling on to existence.
Almost imperceptibly, the hairs on the back of my neck rose in warning. I was being watched.
Hackles raised instinctively as the ghosts of my military responses shifted, I turned sharply on my heel.
A figure stood, almost camouflaged in the shadows of the evergreens.
Almost as tall as the trees, with skin like bone and storm cloud eyes shielded by curls of coal stood Sherlock Holmes. Alive. Smiling. At me.
And there was nothing I could do to stop the tears streaming down my cheeks even after I awoke to tangled sheets and sweat-sheened skin.
