Too Late: Fanfic
Fandoms Sherlock (TV)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Suicide.
Author's Notes: 221b ficlet: 221 words, the last of which starts with a b. These are really frigging hard to write. :D
Summary After three years on the run, it's finally time for Sherlock to return. He never considered that he might be too late.
________________
I’m still alive. Baker Street, 11am Tuesday. Please be there. -SH
Sherlock had sent the text yesterday and received no reply.
Someone was already in the flat when Sherlock got there. A short man with sandy hair, lying on the floor with a bottle of pills in one hand...
“John!” Sherlock flung himself down beside the body, reaching for a pulse. It was useless. John was dead, had been for several days. He never got the text. He never found out Sherlock was alive.
“John... John....” There was nothing he could do. It was too late. Instead Sherlock sat, holding the hand that had been clutching the pills, and cried. Uncertainly he sobbed his way through apologies, things he should have said and never did, more apologies, not wanting to turn John over and see that face gone cold, that smile faded, those eyes dead...
Scanning John’s body, Sherlock could see how three years had changed him. He was much skinner and his hair was a little longer and darker. If Sherlock tried hard enough, he could pretend it wasn’t John at all...
Wait.
Sherlock reached to turn John’s head, hand shaking with nerves. Before he could, however, a floorboard creaked.
“Worst three minutes of your life?” John asked coldly from the doorway.
Mutely, Sherlock nodded.
“Try three years, you bastard.”
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Suicide.
Author's Notes: 221b ficlet: 221 words, the last of which starts with a b. These are really frigging hard to write. :D
Summary After three years on the run, it's finally time for Sherlock to return. He never considered that he might be too late.
________________
I’m still alive. Baker Street, 11am Tuesday. Please be there. -SH
Sherlock had sent the text yesterday and received no reply.
Someone was already in the flat when Sherlock got there. A short man with sandy hair, lying on the floor with a bottle of pills in one hand...
“John!” Sherlock flung himself down beside the body, reaching for a pulse. It was useless. John was dead, had been for several days. He never got the text. He never found out Sherlock was alive.
“John... John....” There was nothing he could do. It was too late. Instead Sherlock sat, holding the hand that had been clutching the pills, and cried. Uncertainly he sobbed his way through apologies, things he should have said and never did, more apologies, not wanting to turn John over and see that face gone cold, that smile faded, those eyes dead...
Scanning John’s body, Sherlock could see how three years had changed him. He was much skinner and his hair was a little longer and darker. If Sherlock tried hard enough, he could pretend it wasn’t John at all...
Wait.
Sherlock reached to turn John’s head, hand shaking with nerves. Before he could, however, a floorboard creaked.
“Worst three minutes of your life?” John asked coldly from the doorway.
Mutely, Sherlock nodded.
“Try three years, you bastard.”