The noise of the street. Cars passing, people stopping for a while,
just to take a look.
People. Small crowd of people. Their hands, their shouts, their
worried, scared, or proffesional or calm expressions.
Some of them are proffesionals. They know what to do. The doctors.
John is a doctor, too.
He should know what to do.
...If there was something to do. Other people's hands are pushing him
away. Some of them cold, some warm, sweaty.
He fights through them even through buckling knees.
He manages to grab Sherlock's pale hand, long fingered, always
restless, elegant it's still warm.
The pale hand. Clean. Soft. Like made for someone to hold it.
Blood, seeping through his curly hair didn't touch his hands. Someone
tugs on John's shoulder, so Sherlocks hand falls lifelessly on the
pavement. It doesn't move. Doesn't twitch. It's completely relaxed.
Like...like dead man's arm.
Can't be dead. This man? Intelligent, brilliant. Can't be dead.
Someone touches Sherlock's back, should