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Description
Art by Me (MsAether ), Fic by MCXI

OTP Challenge - Day 1 (Holding Hands)

—

“Take my hand.”

John puts his hand in Sherlock’s and then they are running through the streets of London. Fugitives, bound. Adrenaline courses through John’s body and he follows without question. He has never been more sure of anything in his life than he is of Sherlock’s palm pressed against his own in this moment.

Sherlock turns a sharp corner and suddenly John is outside of Bart’s, mobile pressed to his ear. One hand is outstretched, reaching for his best mate. Sherlock is perched on the edge of the roof, reaching back but never touching. A moment forever unresolved.

“Goodbye, John.”

He is in motion, propelled towards the hospital, but a cyclist clips him. John falls and suddenly he is on his knees, staring at Sherlock’s body. Blood stains the pavement. John reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand. His wrist is limp, his pulse absent. Someone pulls John back and the contact is broken.

“God, no…”

#

John wakes with a ringing in his ears and the absence of air in his lungs. Life is a vacuum without Sherlock Holmes; with him, it was a supernova.

John throws the blankets aside and walks over to the window. He cracks it open and takes deep gulps of fresh, autumn air. He searches the streets for the battlefield he once knew, but all he sees is desolation. Aftershocks from where Sherlock fell. A wasteland. He has a hard time fathoming how the world continues to spin around him.

Eventually, John goes back to his bed and sits with his back against the wall, knees up. He rests his head in his hands and waits for morning, knowing that sleep won’t come. The feeling of Sherlock’s hand in his own ghosts over his skin.

Take my hand…

Description
Art by Me (MsAether ), Fic by MCXI

OTP Challenge - Day 1 (Holding Hands)

—

“Take my hand.”

John puts his hand in Sherlock’s and then they are running through the streets of London. Fugitives, bound. Adrenaline courses through John’s body and he follows without question. He has never been more sure of anything in his life than he is of Sherlock’s palm pressed against his own in this moment.

Sherlock turns a sharp corner and suddenly John is outside of Bart’s, mobile pressed to his ear. One hand is outstretched, reaching for his best mate. Sherlock is perched on the edge of the roof, reaching back but never touching. A moment forever unresolved.

“Goodbye, John.”

He is in motion, propelled towards the hospital, but a cyclist clips him. John falls and suddenly he is on his knees, staring at Sherlock’s body. Blood stains the pavement. John reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand. His wrist is limp, his pulse absent. Someone pulls John back and the contact is broken.

“God, no…”

#

John wakes with a ringing in his ears and the absence of air in his lungs. Life is a vacuum without Sherlock Holmes; with him, it was a supernova.

John throws the blankets aside and walks over to the window. He cracks it open and takes deep gulps of fresh, autumn air. He searches the streets for the battlefield he once knew, but all he sees is desolation. Aftershocks from where Sherlock fell. A wasteland. He has a hard time fathoming how the world continues to spin around him.

Eventually, John goes back to his bed and sits with his back against the wall, knees up. He rests his head in his hands and waits for morning, knowing that sleep won’t come. The feeling of Sherlock’s hand in his own ghosts over his skin.

Take my hand…