my muse is dying!! send “just, just hang on…” to hear their last words to your muse as they die in their arms!! | accepting bc i am trash | @intransigentholmes
The letters had arrived a week ago; she’d watched, perched on the couch in 221B, as Sherlock poured over every detail -- the envelope, the paper, the writing. Excited. A game was afoot. One that promised a murder at the end. To Fox, it stank of a trap, but what was she to do? It would eat away at him until he found himself at the designated location, with or without her. They were all sent letters, even Lestrade and Molly Hooper. Whoever the soon-to-be killer was, they weren’t playing around. It’s a joke, she had tried to convince him, unable to convince her own stomach from twisting into knots. Something about all of it was wrong, incredibly wrong. Fox kept telling herself it would be fine, they would all be together ( ducks in a row ), her anxiety only worsened when they arrived.
So many masks, all different shapes and colors. Some beautiful others horrifying. Their group were the only ones without. The consulting detective was practically salivating at all the details, determined to thwart the murderers’ plan. While he deduced, Fox stood apart, watching everyone as they surrounded him. Dancers moving as if none of them were there, actors on a stage. A new take on a flash mob. There were five, however, that were forever out of place. Circling instead of moving to the classical moan of the violins. Sharks in the water, circling prey that would soon be bleeding. It was a trap. The murderer meant to overwhelm him with details and sensations, she panicked, multiple killers all aiming for him. They circled closer. The crowd refused to part as she tried to get to him, to warn him over the swell of music. Walking right into the knife in her path.
Instinctively she gripped the wrist of the assailant. Don’t pull it out, don’t pull it out. They twisted the blade. Blood was already dripping. No one ceased their dancing. Around and around and around they spun. It was already too late when she caught his eye. The attacker pulled the knife from her stomach only to plunge it in another time between her ribs. Laughing. He was laughing. By the time Sherlock must’ve realized, he was gone. The knife hidden away within his waistcoat. She was on her knees then, both hands holding to the newly made holes in her body. Was it normal to bleed so quickly?
He was there and he was yelling, telling her something. Just, just hang on. All that spinning. Ballerinas in a music box. Why were they still dancing? Why were the musicians still playing? How was the entirety of the room now tilting on its axis? Looking down there was a red sea, flowing from her, soaking into his trousers. Stained hands reached, holding to either side of his beautiful face. To keep him steady as skirts and shoes continued around them.
“When did it get so cold,” she questioned before coughing. Her mouth became wet, filled with iron that overflowed down her lips. But Sherlock, he was safe, they hadn’t harmed him. That was all that mattered. “I -- I’m not going to make it, am I? Sherlock?” Breathing was becoming difficult. The others were there now, above her, blocking out the light like heavenly beings. Shouting for people to stop moving. “Don’t make the music stop, please, just dance with me one last time. Please, Sherlock.” It was easier than saying don’t let me die. “Just like when I fell i--” Her body was sliding into shock or shutting down or simply not allowing her to say what she wanted to say. In his arms, nothing more came out of her mouth save the wet, gurgling noise of a body filling with blood. Eyes remaining open, once looking at his face now looked through it. Glazed and empty.
The letter’s promise was kept.
