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The Last Flight of the Angel

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Impossible. John was standing there and he just could not believe what he had just seen: Sherlock had jumped and he was now lying in his own blood. An angel should be able to fly, a hero to survive. ‘I have seen so many men die, so many corpses…’ he thought. But the death of strangers, soldiers was nothing compared to the death of someone you really cherish.

‘He was my… friend… my best friend. With everything we’ve been through, I cannot imagine my life without him now. It’s impossible!’

He was standing there and his friend was on the floor. Sherlock’s broken wings and John’s broken heart. Forever. He would never be able to get over it, to go back to Baker Street, talk to Ms. Hudson, eat, breathe… live. Pain was beginning to spread in his mind, tickling his nerves, draining all his strength out of him. Soon his body would fall too as he would take Sherlock’s pulse. Nothing else than death in his veins. This pain was driving him crazy, slowly, gently, controlling him. He glanced at his friend’s eyes, closed, and thought: ‘Why? Why you, now? And how did this happen?’

He started to wander in the streets, alone with his sorrow and mourn. He did not notice the people, the buildings for he was deeply thinking about the recent events. He did not even notice the tears running down his cheeks. He could still see his face, the shape of his sharp cheekbones, his smile, this little smirk he made every time he was amused. He could hear his deep voice trembling in the air, telling him ‘goodbye’… John stopped and sat on a bench, pressing his head with his hands so hard, trying to erase from his memory these two words, ‘Goodbye, John’, and the slender silhouette of his angel falling down St Bart’s. He was an angel who could not fly anymore, burnt and broken by the devil himself. John was angry at him because Sherlock did not let him save him nor help him. He did not understand that his friend was his guardian angel, brought to him just to protect him, and in the end, die for him.