I push desperately through the wall of people that is stopping me from reaching Sherlock.
Words spill out from my mouth and attempt to sway the owners of the hands holding me back.
Doctor. Friend. I am so much more than that.
I spot a gap in the chain of hospital workers and lower myself to the ground. I grab Sherlock's wrist, searching for the evidence I so desperately need.
I know any minute now he'll leap up, wipe that blood off his face and ask how it was. The Fall. 'Did it look real?', he'd ask. And I'll jump up and hug him and tell him I need him and would be lost without him.
Any. Moment. Now.
But his pulse is missing. That doesn't matter. It's all part of his plan. Of course it is. It's all for show.
Except unintelligent hospital workers spring forward and tug his body onto a stretcher.
Don't they know? This is just one of Sherlock's experi-
One of the workers gives a short shake of his head, then looks at me.
I've seen that look.
Seen it on the battlefield. Seen it on stranger