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Explicit
Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
M/M
Sherlock (TV)
Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Angst, Case Gone Wrong, Protective Mycroft, Protective Lestrade,
graphic depictions of injury, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort
Published: 2016-09-09 Words: 1312

Broken Wings
by HumanError
Summary

Lestrade clenches his fist and slams his knuckle against the side of the building. How
could this happen? How in Gods name could a case go so horrendously wrong for them?
And thats when he hears it. He hears the sobs, and the panic and the absolute despair that
is coming from Sherlocks throat. And he knows that Sherlocks trying his best to not let
his emotions show but its not working. The detective is in absolute, utter agony.

Sherlock, Im going to need you to give me the gun. Lestrade says, his voice remaining quiet as
he edges nearer to the man on the floor. Please. He says, but his voice breaks slightly.
The gun in question is actually Johns gun, now feeling much lighter than it was when it had left
Baker Street. The detective has his hands wrapped around it, knuckles white except for the
spatters of blood painting them. He is crouching on the ground and leaning over something which
Lestrade is trying his best to remain oblivious to but is failing to do so, and staring.
There is silence, a cold, sharp silence that tears into Lestrade like a knife reaching for his internal
organs. Theres no returning from it. The damage is done and it becomes significantly clear when
Sherlock eventually moves, his legs giving way as he collapses onto the floor.
The gun drops to the ground. Lestrade knows his training and he knows that he should grab the
gun and call for backup. He knows he should. He knows what the consequences would be if he
didnt. But he cant, because he also knows that if he were to do that, Sherlock would be taken
away to a police cell, locked away for an indefinite amount of time and deprived of any last
connections to John.

Sherlocks not crying. It takes everything he has to not cry, but he manages not to. Instead hes
shaking, pent up anger releasing itself into his blood stream before suddenly he snaps and lunges
at the discarded corpse laying no more than two metres away. The silence is interrupted, and all
the noise that can be heard is the repeated crack, crack, crack of bones breaking. A jaw, a skull, a
nose. His actions are futile, for the man sprawled out on the pavement is already dead. There is not
a brain left in his head.
Lestrade manages to pry Sherlock off the body and they both fall back onto the concrete of the
alleyway. Sherlock doesnt protest. Lestrade doesnt release his grip. They both just stare. They
stare at the man who matters. The man who risked his life and lost.
Johns body is crumpled against the wall on the opposite side of the alley and, despite the darkness
of the night, its hard to miss the blood. Lestrade doesnt want to accept it, no more than Sherlock
wants to accept it, but its hard to deny it.
There wouldnt have been anyway to survive that, Lestrade thinks as his eyes remain locked on
John. Up until that point the detective inspector tried to avoid eye contact with Johns face but
theres no use in denying what he will inevitably have to do. And as he looks, he gasps, and
immediately turns his attention away to face Sherlock.
His face is paler than usual, and his eyes are startled and disturbed. Clumps of blood are matted
into his curly hair and it takes a moment for Lestrade to notice, but there are small fragments of
white bone stuck there also. Sherlocks right arm is also dotted with lumps of flesh from where he
tried to protect himself. There is no denying that it is Johns.
Lestrade cant help but notice how black the blood looks in the moonlight, the way it is pooling
around him, engulfing him.
They remain quiet for possibly only minutes but for Lestrade, it seems like a lifetime. Sherlock is
the one who speaks up first.
My- he tries to say his brothers name but all that comes out is a shaky breath. Sherlock inhales
and shakes his head, squinting his eyes and retreating into himself.
Do you want me to call him? Lestrade asks, gripping Sherlocks arm tightly. He gets no
response, but he decides to call Mycroft anyway. He stands up on legs that he feels wont support
him, and steps away from Sherlock. Behind him, he hears Sherlock shuffling back over to John.
Mycroft answers on the first ring. Lestrade doesnt get the chance to say anything, for Mycroft has
already begun speaking. Im well aware of what has happened, Detective Inspector.
Will you-
Im on my way.
Lestrade throws the phone against the wall before Mycroft has the chance to hang up. Of course
he bloody knows. Why wouldnt he? Lestrade clenches his fist and slams his knuckle against the
side of the building. How could this happen? How in Gods name could a case go so
horrendously wrong for them?
And thats when he hears it. He hears the sobs, and the panic and the absolute despair that is
coming from Sherlocks throat. And he knows that Sherlocks trying his best to not let his
emotions show but its not working. The detective is in absolute, utter agony.
No. No, no, no. Lestrade turns and he sees Sherlocks silhouette against the streetlight. He sees
the way Sherlock has dragged John so that Johns back is pressed against Sherlocks chest, and he

sees the way Sherlock cradles Johns head in a way that is so tender, so gentle, that it seems
almost like an intrusion to be watching the scene play out. He sits against the wall with his legs on
either side of Johns body and holds him, hoping, trying to believe that this isnt real.
All Lestrade can hear now is Sherlocks heavy breathing, occasionally interrupted by a sharp
intake of breath as he weeps.
Sher-His voice cuts out. He cant find it in himself to speak.
Lestrade. At the sound of his name, the detective inspector turns around to see Mycroft standing
at the top of the alleyway. Behind him is a car and two men who are holding on to a stretcher. He
sees the body bag and wants to throw up. Mycroft begins walking down the alleyway until he is
face to face with Lestrade. He is going to need us. Mycroft says, voice even more distant than
Lestrade has ever heard before. He glances over Lestrades shoulder at his brother. More than
ever.
No words will come to him, so he doesnt say anything, and then Mycroft is moving away from
him and towards Sherlock.
Brother, he says in a way that Lestrade has never heard from the elder Holmes: its sympathetic
and subdued. Little brother. And when his little brother doesnt look up, Mycroft says his name.
Sherlock.
Sherlock shifts so Mycroft has space to crouch down beside him. A hand is on his shoulder and
theres a voice in his ear and he doesnt want to hear what comes out of his brothers mouth next
because it means that everything is over, and John will be gone and he will have nothing.
Sherlock, you need to let him go. He shakes his head. Sherlock, John is gone.
Mycroft stands and holds his hand out to his brother, in a way that is so unlike Mycroft Holmes
that Lestrade cannot help but stare. He wants to cry. Sherlock looks up and his face is covered in
blood from where hes been holding John close to him, theres still bone in his hair, his hands are
bruising and skin is broken from where he attacked Johns murderer.
Its time to go. And he does. He manages to manoeuvre himself out from under John and
Mycroft pulls him up, and suddenly theyre together in an embrace that has Sherlock sobbing into
Mycrofts shoulder. They stand there, just the two of them and Sherlock cries. He screams. And
Mycroft doesnt say a word, just hugs him tighter.
Sherlock is the one who pulls away first and when he looks up to his brother Mycroft cannot help
but feel broken at the sight of him. He was the picture of a defeated man.
He didnt know if there was any coming back from that.

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