John folds his arms over his chest. He stops talking. He closes his eyes, delicate lashes drifting down towards deeply scored pain-and-suffering lines. He stands perfectly still against the wall like an abandoned dust mop, and just exactly that colour too, and Sherlock can see his entire life crumbling, both of their lives, a thousand futures of cases and take-away and murders and sex and misunderstandings and jokes and obsession and quiet smiles and mingled blood gone in the blink of an eye. A thousand threads of what-might-have-beens, all burning. (x)
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