A/N: Hullo! First fic in... say, three, almost four, years! And I decided to present this fic to RoadKillHermes. :3 She wanted a fic concerning the train scene of Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Short little thing, a bit of a practice, really.
He can't die!
But he's not breathing.
It's Sherlock. He wouldn't let himself die. Especially like this!
Why are you being so bloody difficult? He's gone.
… He's my friend.
The thoughts. All of them rammed into his head like needles. They were jabbing at him, slowly ripping the bits of sanity and hope he had left. He refused to let the facts attack him. His body was twitching - no, shaking - with fear and his mind was at war with itself. The injured man, having ignored his own wounds, tried to resuscitate the cold body. Simza attempted to hum the same lullaby she produced moments ago whilst stroking Holmes' face with her tender hands. She was trying to keep everything under control, the man with the mustache thinks, but it was obviously to no prevail.
He continued to work with what was given to him. After each vigorous pound, he checked if there was a heartbeat. Any sign of a pulse. Pressing his ear against Holmes' chest didn't help. Placing a finger to his neck had no effect either. Simza didn't feel air come in or out through Holmes' nose. His chest didn't rise or fall.
Sherlock Holmes' companion, John Watson, resumed ramming his fist at his friend's chest in attempts to restart his heart. With each heave, he became breathless. Watson's wounds started to annoy him and smeared the train's floor with blood. He dismissed it, however. All that was on his mind was reviving Holmes. Watson gathered his energy and gave another punch. "I know you can hear me, you selfish bastard!"
Selfish. That's what you are, isn't it? Not him, he's given everything.
What? I'm not selfish!
Then why are you trying to bring him back?
Because…! Because… we need him. I need him.
You don't need him, you want him.
And before Watson's vulnerable and needy, almost clingy, side of the battle was able to respond, Watson had blocked the war out and stopped. His hands were ghosting over Holmes' chest. His vision was hazy. Holmes' face looked blurry through his eyes. Watson didn't know it, but he was crying. The tears escaped through his eyes and raced down his reddened cheeks. He was still looking at Holmes. Just him. He had finally faced the facts. Sherlock Holmes, the charming enigma, was dead.
They say people look like they're sleeping when they're dead. Well, I've seen people die and they don't look like that. They look dead. I figured that… that you would have looked like you were sleeping when you die. That would've given me hope, you know? The tale of Sleeping Beauty. One kiss. Too bad Irene isn't here to snog you, huh?
Simza noticed Watson's tears and moved her body away from Holmes' to pull a shattered Watson into her arms. Now he realized it. He noticed the watery streams of loss and sadness. Upon having noticed these tears, Watson didn't do anything to restrain the appearance of them. He didn't hold them back and he certainly didn't pretend like he didn't know it. Instead, Watson pressed his face on Simza's shoulder and held her tightly. The tears were drenching his face and soaking her clothes. She was trying to comfort him, but comfort was far from his mind.
Then, he remembered.
"Holmes, how many times must you kill my dog?"
And thus, an idea was born.