AN: hi everyone. Wow, okay I'm not going to lie.. I abandoned this story big time and I'm so sorry for that. I just lost interest and moved on to write other topics. I'm genuinely really sorry that I left this hanging and I never brought this to some kind of conclusion. You've all been so kind with your reviews and I appreciate them all. I feel like my writing has improved a lot and it's thanks to all the people who complimented me and reviewed because without you I might have given up. This collection of one shots was really fun to write and it challenged and stretched my writing abilities. This isn't necessarily the end, who knows, maybe I'll write some more Johnlock when series 3 comes out. But for now, consider this a good bye and a sincere thank you. I'll leave you with this rubbish and fairly short one shot which I wrote when I was feeling inspired. Thank you again - Erin

Prompt word: tears

His skin is pale under the bright white moonlight that filters through the thin clouds, drenching the foggy London streets in light. Curls that are the colour of ravens wings bounce from his head, messily catching in the gentle wind, twisting and turning into a knotted clump. One of his hands is covered in blood, dark red and pulsing from the open wound on the soft, pale skin just below his elbow. The blood drips onto the floor, soaking into the cobblestones creating an imprint that will stain for a long time. His eyes are wide and bright, a strange combination of blue and green that draw you into them, dragging you in like an ocean does. Like a whole universe is hidden inside. A whole world.

Sherlock winces in pain as he brings his injured arm closer to his body, cradling the long limb with his other arm, his pupils completely dilated and staring wildly into the dark alleyway that he stumbles along. He's completely high, so utterly out of it that in his mind the whole world is painted green and all the buildings just keep on pulsing and moving and /changing/ every single time he blinks. Sherlock trips slightly but catches himself, making sure to stay standing and not fall onto his face.

"Let's get you home." comes a strong voice from behind him, a voice that is commanding but gentle. A voice that knows they are talking to a broken man. Mycroft Holmes steps out of the shadows, elegantly swinging his umbrella, his impeccable suit not even specked with any sort of grime. He takes a few steps closer to Sherlock and attempts to reach out for him but the other man moves out of the way, dropping his head quickly and clutching his loose T-shirt closer to himself.

"Wasting away isn't going to solve anything. Getting high isn't going to fix anything Sherlock." Mycroft says.


"John made his choice. Now, we must deal with what he did."

"He killed himself." Sherlock replies, an unusual amount of emotion colouring his tone, "He killed himself because of me."

"We don't know that." Mycroft answers sensibly, "Besides, this isn't what John would've wanted you to do, is it?"

"Mycroft. Tell me honestly.. Could I have dealt with Moriarty any differently?"

"No. I don't believe you could have done anything else." Mycroft replies, "Now, let me take you home."

"Okay." Sherlock answers, sagging forwards slightly, leaning on Mycroft's arm. "I'm sorry I'm a bad brother."

"Don't apologise."

The two of them stumble back across to Mycroft's car, shivering slightly in the wind. Sherlock sinks down onto the leather seat and Mycroft discreetly turns away his head as Sherlock rubs his eyes to stop the tears.