Despite his best efforts, Sherlock wakes one night with a cry and a horrible, burning pain in his chest. It feels like panic and desperation and like being found in a shower with the back of his head bloodied (delete) or waking up in an ambulance and knowing he’s alone (delete) or realizing as the haze envelops his vision that he lost count of how many pills he’d taken, he lost count of all people.

Sherlock is relatively certain he’s not having a medical emergency, though when he thinks of what else it might be he firmly chases off all relevant chains of thought. So he goes out onto the terrace of his non-smoking apartment and chain-smokes half a pack of Parliaments. All the same, the ache in his chest doesn’t leave for days.

Seven thousand kilometers away, Captain John Watson bleeds out in a helicopter over the pale desert sands.

this fic is tugging at my heart like fucking woah. it’s omegaverse, so yeah, if that’s not your bag baby, avoid this, but i’m very picky with my omegaverse and this is good so far

links in the source~~~

  1. fawnjohn said: IT GETS SADDER? I’m having a hard time continuing after reading the summary of chapter two. D :
  2. kathykins reblogged this from a-cumberbatch-of-cookies
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