The noise of the street. Cars passing, people stopping for a while,
just to take a look.
People. Small crowd of people. Their hands, their shouts, their
worried, scared, or proffesional or calm expressions.
Some of them are proffesionals. They know what to do. The doctors.
John is a doctor, too.
He should know what to do.
...If there was something to do. Other people's hands are pushing him
away. Some of them cold, some warm, sweaty.
He fights through them even through buckling knees.
He manages to grab Sherlock's pale hand, long fingered, always
restless, elegant – it's still warm.
The pale hand. Clean. Soft. Like made for someone to hold it.
Blood, seeping through his curly hair didn't touch his hands. Someone
tugs on John's shoulder, so Sherlocks hand falls lifelessly on the
pavement. It doesn't move. Doesn't twitch. It's completely relaxed.
Like...like dead man's arm.
Can't be dead. This man? Intelligent, brilliant. Can't be dead.
Someone touches Sherlock's back, shoulders. There's no sound from the body.
The scary echo of the skull, cracking on the concrete subsided into nothing.
People tugs John away, making sure he can stand on his own.
There's a stretcher.
They pick his friend up and wheeles him away.
So dead. His friend.
His best friend.
Only one he had in ages.
He stands there alone.
People are passing by; noone notices the blood on the street.
It actually doesn't look differend from John's blood. Or Lestrade's.
There's police car coming in.
Lestrade. He knows. How he knows so quickly?
He doesn't knows.
John doesn't explain anything. Doesn't want Lestrade to hug him. He
shakes Greg's hand off his shoulder.
He asks for a ride home.
,,I'm pretty sure, thank you." Unshaken voice.
He's sitting in the 221b, alone.
Alone. That what is means...
He still doesn't cry.