(not very good sorry) Sherlock and John stood stunned. John with his mouth open, in apparent shock, Sherlock had gone white as a sheet. This wasn't possible. In no way on earth was this possible. Sherlock ran his hand over his mouth, taking one step forward and then back. No, no, no no! How could this be real?! Had his overdose done something to his brain?
I was moving on...I was...I was dealing with this! Why? I don't understand. He felt tears in his eyes. The figure seemed real. Solid, not a ghost surely, there was no such things as ghosts. But here was one right in front of him. Just as pale, thiner than he remembered, with clear bruises, cuts and bandages..and crutches...No. You can't be alive..it's not possible.
John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft, still not capable of speech. Mycroft looked terrible. If it was Mycroft. John could see Sherlock's hands begin to shake. His friend was still recovering from his overdose and everything else. This might prove to much for him. He walked over to his friend, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. Concern had over taken his shock in mere seconds.
“Sherlock? You alright mate?”
“No. No. No!” He shook his head, tears falling, eyes fuming with pain, confusion, anger, but never leaving his late brother. He bit his lip, limped past John, straight to his room and slamming the door so hard that Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and John almost jumped out of their skins. ----- Mycroft, who had been able to find the right words, looked down, unsure of John's reaction and feeling terrible due to his brother's. He felt a hand on his arm. “Well, you're not a spirit in any case...so you're alive then” He nodded, looking into the doctor's eyes. There were unshed tears in both.
“What the hell were you thinking?! Did you plan this?! Fake your own death to achieve some stupid governmental objective?!”
“John...listen..” It's not like that.
“No! You listen! Have you any idea what he's been going through? What the rest of us have been going through?! You were dead, Mycroft! Dead. Sherlock stopped talking, communicating. We nearly lost him to that mind of his, Mycroft! He's been mourning you, breaking my heart, Mrs Hudsons."
John had begun to pace the flat, every so often pointing an accusing finger at Mycroft or flailing his hands about in anger. "We went on holiday! To help him deal with things. But he couldn't! He bloody couldn't stop thinking about you! All the things he might've said, all the memories he treasured.....He overdosed Mycroft...trying to forget you and the pain. I hope you're happy. Now leave, I can't stand the sight of you”
John pointed to the door, gasping from his rant and staring daggers at the man who'd broken his best friend.
Re: Oh Brother Of Mine 43/?
Sherlock and John stood stunned. John with his mouth open, in apparent shock, Sherlock had gone white as a sheet. This wasn't possible. In no way on earth was this possible. Sherlock ran his hand over his mouth, taking one step forward and then back. No, no, no no! How could this be real?! Had his overdose done something to his brain?
I was moving on...I was...I was dealing with this! Why? I don't understand. He felt tears in his eyes. The figure seemed real. Solid, not a ghost surely, there was no such things as ghosts. But here was one right in front of him. Just as pale, thiner than he remembered, with clear bruises, cuts and bandages..and crutches...No. You can't be alive..it's not possible.
John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft, still not capable of speech. Mycroft looked terrible. If it was Mycroft. John could see Sherlock's hands begin to shake. His friend was still recovering from his overdose and everything else. This might prove to much for him. He walked over to his friend, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. Concern had over taken his shock in mere seconds.
“Sherlock? You alright mate?”
“No. No. No!” He shook his head, tears falling, eyes fuming with pain, confusion, anger, but never leaving his late brother. He bit his lip, limped past John, straight to his room and slamming the door so hard that Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and John almost jumped out of their skins.
-----
Mycroft, who had been able to find the right words, looked down, unsure of John's reaction and feeling terrible due to his brother's. He felt a hand on his arm. “Well, you're not a spirit in any case...so you're alive then” He nodded, looking into the doctor's eyes. There were unshed tears in both.
“What the hell were you thinking?! Did you plan this?! Fake your own death to achieve some stupid governmental objective?!”
“John...listen..” It's not like that.
“No! You listen! Have you any idea what he's been going through? What the rest of us have been going through?! You were dead, Mycroft! Dead. Sherlock stopped talking, communicating. We nearly lost him to that mind of his, Mycroft! He's been mourning you, breaking my heart, Mrs Hudsons."
John had begun to pace the flat, every so often pointing an accusing finger at Mycroft or flailing his hands about in anger. "We went on holiday! To help him deal with things. But he couldn't! He bloody couldn't stop thinking about you! All the things he might've said, all the memories he treasured.....He overdosed Mycroft...trying to forget you and the pain. I hope you're happy. Now leave, I can't stand the sight of you”
John pointed to the door, gasping from his rant and staring daggers at the man who'd broken his best friend.