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IT WAS ON THE THIRTY FIRST OF DECEMBER that Sherlock Holmes finds himself cradling a dying woman close to his chest.
The midnight air was eerily cold, the promise of winter draping itself across his body as it shivered under his teal blue coat. Despite this, Sherlock hastily removed the garment, shaking it off his shoulders before frantically draping it over the figure against his arms.
She was silently gasping, clutching his arms as he shifted, clouds of white blew out of her lips as her teeth chattered. She looked up at him with glossy eyes, and a tear cascaded down her porcelain cheeks as she swallowed dryly.
" I've been shot," She whispered.
" I'm aware of that," Sherlock gruffly replied, his hands sliding down the expanse of her waist to rest on the spot below her collarbone. He pressed his hands against the wound, causing her to lurch forward.
"Shh," He crooned, letting her lean against his chest as she rested above his knees, her body trembling,"Scotland Yard is on their way. Stay with me, ma'am."
" Annabel," She choked out, " My name is Annabel Lee."
Her eyes trailed to the scene in front of her. There was no one in sight, except for the once alive gunman that now lay limp against the road. It happened so quick, too quick for any of them to comprehend.
Sherlock has calculated the risk, he has foreseen the outcome of the situation a thousand times. He had run through it word by word, bit by bit, scene by scene. There wasn't a scenario in his head where it could go wrong, but he didn't take one factor into consideration.
The interference of a passerby.
He had expected everyone in London to be preoccupied during New Years, celebrating the start of new opportunities and setting goals that they will never truly pursue unless motivated by an emotional drive.
Even the DI Lestrade had done so. He had been invited per usual, but he had other plans in mind, so he politely declined and managed to throw him off his tail by claiming that it was because of a quick trip to St.Barts.
Unbeknownst to them, St.Bart's well-known pathologist, Molly Hooper, is currently on a trip to America with her relatives. Therefore, Sherlock took this as an opportunity to take a case assigned to him by his brother.
The politician had called it his ' early new year's gift.' How can he refuse, when the man is last seen in one of the most isolated parts of London? This was his chance to solve another great enigma, take down another notorious killer.
It took a couple of punches before the criminal finally pulled out his gun, pointing it at the consulting detective. Sherlock had come ready with his own, and the two had a standoff, the air as still as their breaths as tension swarmed the air.
They could hear the distant booming of music as they light up the city's central areas, alongside the fireworks that decorated the void of night.
Sherlock held his breath, this was it. He knew that he was playing a game of Russian roulette, that he was dancing on the edge of the cliff that separated him from death and life.
There was now a probability that he will come out alive, where he would call DI Lestrade and ruin his fun. Or, the one where he would be left to bleed himself on the ground, with a hole in his chest as he waited for death to pick him up.
He had always been the risk taker, he was so confident that he would make it out of this unscathed.
Alive.
It was true, in the end, he didn't take the bullet.
Instead, she did.
She came out of nowhere, he had barely the time to fully register her presence when a shot pierced through the air, ringing against his ears.
Instinctively Sherlock pulled the trigger, and it shot him right in the head, just above the bridge of his nose. The woman stumbled backward, slumping against him as his bullet pierced straight through her.
" No, no, no, no" He muttered, letting the shock subdue as he gently laid her down.
Her mouth was agape as if she wanted to scream but nothing came out. She locked onto his eyes, crimson pooling against the floral dress under her aviator jacket. The liquid started to stain her stockings, drenching them in an ugly shade of velvet.
He was snapped back into the moment when he felt it seep through his fingers, and he is suddenly aware of her fluttering eyelids. She was on the brink of slipping into unconsciousness, the blood loss was critical.
" Ms.Lee, I'm going to need you to stay awake," He whispered urgently, rubbing his other hand across her arm to keep her warm,"Look at me."
She complied, looking up at him through long lashes, her honeydew eyes imitating whiskey as they rest under the streetlight," Who are you?"
" Sherlock, " He perked up against the distant sound of sirens speeding towards them. They were police cars, he needed an ambulance.
He gritted his teeth,"Sherlock Holmes."
"Have we met before ?" She frowned, as if trying to remember, "I feel like I know you."
" I don't think we have," He replied.
She coughed, the force causing her body to curl deeper against him," I'm, not going to hold on for much longer."
" No, no, no," He gripped her tighter,"Listen to me. You're not going to die."
She shook her head limply, her breathing turning shallow.
"I don't want to go," Her voice cracked as she gripped onto the lapels of his coat," Please."
" Then why did you take the shot?"
He was frustrated as he watches her skin grow pale, the tinged of blue replacing the once rosy shade dancing across her skin.
" Or else you'll die," She admitted, her eyes carefully scanning his face.
" You don't know me," His eyes searched for anything, any object he could use to help her. But the houses that loomed over them were unoccupied, either ready for reconstruction or demolition.
" Doesn't matter," She continued, her eyes barely open.
" You don't deserve to die," She murmured, before her, a sigh left her lips, and with that,
she was gone.
The air turned rigid, and Sherlock could hear her breathing stop. The weak pulse under her charred skin has was no longer there, and her skin is now cold, absent of any warmth.
As the clock struck midnight, Scotland Yard arrived in front of a horrifying scene. Their officers hesitantly going down from their cars as it encased Sherlock Holmes.
Others rushed to secure the body of the culprit, others like Sally Donovan and could only gawk at the detective as he sat rigid with a corpse across his chest.
" Jesus Christ," The words were ripped out of the DI's throat as he covered his face momentarily, looking down at his shoes as Sherlock approached him. The body dangling between his fingers.
" Dead," He declared, pulling the figure closer to his chest as the sea of officers parted to give way to him as he approached the Ambulance.
Whispers swarmed the air, mangled with the onslaught of sirens and echoing of laughter, alongside the fireworks launched against the pitch black sky.
The consulting detective slowly lowered her down across the blue bed, sweeping the strands of her hair to reveal her chapped lips.
The night calls for another year to celebrate life, and yet here he is, witnessing the death of someone who didn't entirely deserves it.
" Happy New Year," He whispered, and for some reason, he finds it difficult to untangle his fingers from her own stony ones.
IT WAS ON THE FIRST OF JANUARY, that the wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing Annabel Lee.
