Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes could have been something truly beautiful, had he not met John Watson. If the world had dealt him a better hand, he could have gone on to be the next great mind in science or chemistry, might have become a hero.
Sherlock knows better than to fight back. He has purple-dark bruises blossoming across his skin, achingly real.
His tongue is a razor, and he does not speak for fear of bleeding out. He is trapped.
There is no rescue, no happy ending. John is the closest thing to a happy ending that he will ever get. Not even the crows in Regent's park will remember him now.
He is barely human; exists on the edge of a shadow, fading in and out of reality. Could have been a hero. Could have been infinite. No. Never again.
There's something in that moment that catches spark, and Sherlock smiles through blackened teeth. A hero. He'd have liked that, maybe in another life.
Then the light goes out, and Sherlock Holmes falls like a snowflake.