The Weight of Living

Chapter 1: The Fall

Hellloooo! I'm new to Wattpad. First of all sorry that this is so short, I want to see if it gets any reads. doesn't quite follow cannon after the third season and all, i just thought it would be a fun thing to write

Enjoy:)

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Chapter 1:

Sherlock opened his eyes to the grey sky above him. He staired ito it's dark majesty when he was brought back to reality by the histerical sound of sirens in the distance. He sat up dizzily, his vision blurred. He pulled his long spidery legs in underneith him in an attempt to stand. He teetered with an new unknown weight pulling at his shoulders. When his sight returned and he re-gained his balance, Sherlock turned his attention to his back, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Wings. A pair of huge feathery wings had somehow attached themselves to his upper torso. He ran his hand along it's delicate feathers, they were white with black near the ends, as if dipped in black ink. Sherlock then sudenly heared the sirens drawng closer. He turned his attention back to where he now stood. A one foor wall surrounded him in a large rectangle. Behind that, the rest of london was staring him in the face, tall buildings ligned up far and wide. ' a rooftop' he thought to himself and then he suddenly remembered. He remembered all that had happened to him that day. He looked down in front of him to see the sprauled out body of Jim Moriarti. Shot just the way he had left him on the roof of barts. A pool of blood surrounded moriarty's head and the blank smile he always wore, spread out across his face. Sherlock staired down at him, His grey eyes gleaming in hatrid and disgust. He attempted to kick his limp body, but insted, his shoe went right through. Sherlock astonished backed up. He kneeled down near his head, and poked him in the temple. His hand could move right through his skull as if the man wasn't real. He sowly moved away from the body and to the edge where he had fallen. He had been incredibly ignorant not to devise a plan, and in result he had died. He was now a ghost, a mere essence of Sherlock Holmes. It was all imposible he knew, just a crazy dream. Sherlock staired over the edge and saw his body, carried away on a gerney. People were gathering around the scene, then he saw John trying incredibly hard to make his way through the crowed. " John." Sherlock muttered under his breath. John, the masn that never left Sherlock's side. The man who had always there for him, was now left abandon in a crowd.