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Summary
A reimagining of *that scene* in the Paris tunnels. Essentially, I have Young Sherlock Brain rot and it won’t leave me alone.
Small excerpt: “Sherlock,” he called, hand rising to his friend’s face as his knees sunk into the carpeted floor.
“He isn’t responding,” came the panicked and tearstained voice of Mrs. Holmes.
“Sherlock, look at me,” he said again, ignoring calls that it was useless. “Sherly! Look at me damn you.”
Dark lashed fluttered open and Moriarty felt his heart slow to a less frantic rhythm.
“James,” came a slurred response.
Moriarty felt his heart clench at the whine of pain that followed after.
“I’m here. I’m here. Stay with me, I’m right here,” he whispered, brushing Sherlock’s hair back.
“I’m sorry,” came another slurred response.
“Don’t you dare,” he said firmly, practically shouting while still maintaining a whisper. It felt right to hold hushed tones in this moment: though he wasn’t certain if that was due to Sherlock dying or due to the emotions surging between them. “Don’t you dare apologize for any of it. Not now. You owe me Sherlock Holmes. You burst into my life and you’re not leaving it yet.”
Series
- Part 1 of Paris Nights: Young Sherlock AU