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Ficlet: Matter
Aug. 8th, 2012 03:29 pmTitle: Matter
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spacemutineer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: death
Word Count: 172
Author's Notes: My first BBC fic, actually, and my first prompt fill in a very long time.
Prompt: from comment-fic: Sherlock BBC, John / or + Sherlock, AU, John makes a bargain with a demon or the devil. In exchange for his own soul Sherlock will be resurrected from the grave.
"I have to see it," he says.
He's out the door before John can stop him.
Down in the morgue, he finally pauses his furious motion, his hand clamped on the drawer. He pauses, but only for the space of a single living heartbeat.
The drawer slides open with a high metallic squeal. Sherlock's body, the other one, the dead one, lies motionless, staring at the cheap industrial ceiling tiles with its empty glass eyes. The bullet hole in the center of its bare white chest looks so much smaller now than the first time John saw it.
"How?" Sherlock says, his face up close to the corpse, his hands with their delicate blue veins dancing over it, examining it for any explanation. All he finds instead are questions. "Who is this? What is this? I don't understand. John, how did you do this? What have you done?"
Sherlock blinks at him. And breathes. And shakes. And lives.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Sherlock. It doesn't matter anymore."
Author:
spacemutineerRating: PG-13
Warnings: death
Word Count: 172
Author's Notes: My first BBC fic, actually, and my first prompt fill in a very long time.
Prompt: from comment-fic: Sherlock BBC, John / or + Sherlock, AU, John makes a bargain with a demon or the devil. In exchange for his own soul Sherlock will be resurrected from the grave.
"I have to see it," he says.
He's out the door before John can stop him.
Down in the morgue, he finally pauses his furious motion, his hand clamped on the drawer. He pauses, but only for the space of a single living heartbeat.
The drawer slides open with a high metallic squeal. Sherlock's body, the other one, the dead one, lies motionless, staring at the cheap industrial ceiling tiles with its empty glass eyes. The bullet hole in the center of its bare white chest looks so much smaller now than the first time John saw it.
"How?" Sherlock says, his face up close to the corpse, his hands with their delicate blue veins dancing over it, examining it for any explanation. All he finds instead are questions. "Who is this? What is this? I don't understand. John, how did you do this? What have you done?"
Sherlock blinks at him. And breathes. And shakes. And lives.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Sherlock. It doesn't matter anymore."
