[ John's jaw tightens. He wants to shout at the boy to hurry up, to toss his stupid communicator out of the pool for a fucking second to pull the body out of the water. He wants to jump in and do it himself. But Eridan is right, there's nothing they can do at this point. The body is nearly submerged, limbs sprawled by the ebb and flow of the pool filter. John's eyes focus on one pale hand, the long fingers which had once plucked and twiddled irritably at a violin string, but were now blue and beginning to bloat. He's been there for an hour at least.
John looks away.
He doesn't say anything. Eridan will see him moving slowly now, rounding the pool and not allowing himself to glance down into those waters, where the body of his best friend floats, spidery thin and pitiful. It's not Sherlock. Not anymore.
He's first on the scene, but there will be others very, very soon. Do-gooders, meddlers, armchair detectives, people who can't wait to have a look and jeer at the Great Sherlock Holmes, who was seemingly so stupid as to fall into a pool and drown. Oh yes, he's heard some of the other posts responding to this one on the way up. And if he has his way, the body won't be lingering for much longer. John Watson is an incredibly stubborn man, a man who often defers to the judgement of others, but not out of weakness. No one tells him what to do unless he lets them. No one's going to be able to stop him when he wants to go - that's already partially been proven by Eridan's failed attempt to keep him from coming.
People will be investigating the death. Not too hard, he suspects. The deaths of Hotspur and the painter still remain unsolved, and the former was more loved than the man floating in the pool now. That's alright, though, because John already knows who the culprit is.
God. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to be real. Sherlock wasn't supposed to lose.
Something catches his eye as he's scouring everything but the pool. His pace speeds up briefly as he walks over, leans down, and picks up... A gun. John recognizes it immediately. Of course he does. It's his. It's his service pistol, the one he usually kept in his nightstand in the shared flat. Sherlock liked to take it, used to like shooting their walls with it.
John chokes. His vision briefly fogs, but free hand comes up to fiercely clasp his mouth. He feels sick. John is a man who has seen the worst of what can happen to a human body, has been clung to by men who are spitting blood and shitting themselves and crying for their creators to spare them. This isn't nothing, but he should be better off than this. He should know better - he did know better. He was always aware that a man like Sherlock would never be the sort to be able to pass away peacefully, but this...
His back is mostly to Eridan when the sudden episode comes over him. A few seconds later and one can hear John breathing in, rapid and ragged. He straightens fully, shoulders rolling back to something that says he's more in control of his situation than he really is, and tucks the gun into the waistline of his trousers, which he then hides with his shirt. ]
[gdi Eridan get a move on]
John looks away.
He doesn't say anything. Eridan will see him moving slowly now, rounding the pool and not allowing himself to glance down into those waters, where the body of his best friend floats, spidery thin and pitiful. It's not Sherlock. Not anymore.
He's first on the scene, but there will be others very, very soon. Do-gooders, meddlers, armchair detectives, people who can't wait to have a look and jeer at the Great Sherlock Holmes, who was seemingly so stupid as to fall into a pool and drown. Oh yes, he's heard some of the other posts responding to this one on the way up. And if he has his way, the body won't be lingering for much longer. John Watson is an incredibly stubborn man, a man who often defers to the judgement of others, but not out of weakness. No one tells him what to do unless he lets them. No one's going to be able to stop him when he wants to go - that's already partially been proven by Eridan's failed attempt to keep him from coming.
People will be investigating the death. Not too hard, he suspects. The deaths of Hotspur and the painter still remain unsolved, and the former was more loved than the man floating in the pool now. That's alright, though, because John already knows who the culprit is.
God. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to be real. Sherlock wasn't supposed to lose.
Something catches his eye as he's scouring everything but the pool. His pace speeds up briefly as he walks over, leans down, and picks up... A gun. John recognizes it immediately. Of course he does. It's his. It's his service pistol, the one he usually kept in his nightstand in the shared flat. Sherlock liked to take it, used to like shooting their walls with it.
John chokes. His vision briefly fogs, but free hand comes up to fiercely clasp his mouth. He feels sick. John is a man who has seen the worst of what can happen to a human body, has been clung to by men who are spitting blood and shitting themselves and crying for their creators to spare them. This isn't nothing, but he should be better off than this. He should know better - he did know better. He was always aware that a man like Sherlock would never be the sort to be able to pass away peacefully, but this...
His back is mostly to Eridan when the sudden episode comes over him. A few seconds later and one can hear John breathing in, rapid and ragged. He straightens fully, shoulders rolling back to something that says he's more in control of his situation than he really is, and tucks the gun into the waistline of his trousers, which he then hides with his shirt. ]