Game over
Sherlock’s wedding speech had been just a bit too real.
author: Tehilla
rating: S
fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
genre: angst
Disclaimer: Sherlock and his companions belong originally to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the fandom in which this fanfic gets place belongs to BBC. I don’t get any monetary benefit from this.
A/N: I wrote this little fic right after watching
The Sign of Three. Because my English is not so well, I tried to translate this to Finnish, but it wasn’t working. So sorry for all mistakes I made. I’ll be super glad if you have time to point out some of them!
Warnign: This fanfic spoils the second episode (The Sign of Three) of the series 3!
John’s feet ached after too much dancing and too many hours spent in tight leather shoes. His eyes were searching dark, curly hair from a little bit above other heads, but he couldn’t reach it. He had asked Sherlock from Greg, from Mrs. Hudson and even from Molly Hooper, but any of them hadn’t seen him in a while. John’s chest felt tighter on every non-sherlocked minute. Sherlock’s wedding speech had been just a bit too real.
I’ll never let you down and I have a lifetime ahead to prove that.The words were so touching at the time that John had to have wiped his eyes. Now echoing in his ears they sounded scary. More than scary, terrifying.
Lifetime ahead
… time ahead
… ahead.
Envelope felt heavy on John’s hand.
Dr. and Mrs. Watson. Handwriting was as familiar as his own, and John could see something like notes through the thin, elegant paper. He had never seen on Sherlock’s face such an expression that he saw at the last time he spoke to Sherlock. A lot of dancing before.
Sherlock tended to keep his promises.
A shady image from the bottom of John’s mind game closer. It wasn’t clear at all, and also Sherlock on the memory was waving while standing in the middle of an unfamiliar room. His memory of Sherlock’s words was sharp as a razor, though.
The game is… something. Horrifying thought popped in John’s mind. If the game was over?
He had only promised a lifetime.
John rushed out of the door. Thin air felt carrying oxygen not enough to his lungs. The night had already darkened outside the celebration hall.
“Sherlock!” John’s voice wasn’t loud enough to get any answer. He felt panic growing inside him. His legs were too weak to keep him up, so he sank to his knees. The grass under his hands was wet.
John knew he couldn’t bear Sherlock being dead to him again.
He should have understood his pain. He should have thought Sherlock more instead of himself. He had already got his one miracle.
“Sherlock!”
Only the silence replied to John’s desperation.
