The Red Snow

John couldn't breathe as he felt his chest tighten. Finding a breath became a chore and his stomach turned as he repeated Sherlock's words over and over in his head.

"She....she what?" John managed to squeeze the words past his lips as he stared at her dead form on the table almost forgetting his friend was below him. Sherlock noticed the man;s body was going limp so he used his good side to push himself up forcing, but gently ushering, John to sit up with him. His left shoulder screamed at him, but he ignored its plithe. John absent mindedly crawled backwards till his back hit the nearest wall not taking his burning eyes off of his dead wife. He sat there in horror finally finding his breath, but they were jagged and short. His heart found a hard rhythm and threatened to explode in his chest.

Sherlock reached for the opener and grabbed ahold on the handle. Taking a breath, he slowly began to remove the intrusive object. He bit into his lower lip keeping a slow pace till he was about half way. John joined him in the removal suddenly wrapping his hands around Sherlock's. The two locked eyes and Sherlock found John's affections returning once more. His madness diminished as his compassion returned, his mind seemingly forgetting that he caused Sherlock this pain in the first place. As a doctor, he saw trouble and immediately wanted to do the right thing. John pulled with Sherlock removing the opener with a small moan of pain escaping the injured man.

John cupped his cheek in an apology before putting the opener back into his pocket letting the blood soak its insides. He ushered Sherlock to sit against the wall removing his bloody jacket and shirt to look at the wound. Sherlock tilted his head away from it to give John a better view. It gushed and dripped down the hard torso. Blood disappeared into his armpit and into the creases of his abdomen. John licked his lips wanting to taste it suddenly.

John went to work quickly making sure to grab everything he needed in the room to dress the wound. His hip bumped the table in his scattering. Finally, with everything in hand, John landed next to his friend on the floor and addressed the wound once more.

"Tell me," John whispered as he began cleaning the wound. Sherlock hissed as the opening fizzled remaining silent. "Holmes." Sherlock turned to look at him. "How did you kill her?"

"She didn't put much effort into her survival. A man was leaving your humble abode as I was approaching, fidgeting with a ring on his left hand telling me he was indeed married, his body language said the rest. The sway of his hips, the hunch of his shoulders, the smell of Mary's perfume on his coat. Lipstick staining his neck. I slipped past him to your stoop and knocked on the door. She answered with disappointment, old boy. Not the least bit happy to see me, as I had deduced already. Being your 'faithful" wife that she was, I had to give her the benefit of doubt before I recognized a scab on her ear, a bit of wine showing on her bosom lace. Her hands were pruned from dishwater, washing the wine glasses no doubt. She almost shut the door on me before I entered into the foyer. I produced my findings and my intentions to take you back and away from her." Sherlock snickered looking over at her. "I simply said, if she couldn't belong to you, then you couldn't belong to her. She loathed me, Watson. She took a shot at me missing horribly. That's when I pushed her back towards the stairs where her loose lace, no doubt not back in proper place from her 'activities', caught on the up rooted nail. Ssss...ah!" Sherlock tensed when John started to thread the needle through his skin. "She regained her self and proceeded up stairs to your study, using the most offense derogatory term at my direction. Said she had known it all along."

"What did she call you, Holmes?"

"Pédé." Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "She knew all along, she said. She didn't know anything, Watson. She didn't know anything about us, either. We were so happy together, Watson. Perfectly fine before she came along. Why did you leave me for her?"

John pursed his lips. "We've already discussed that, Holmes. Don't make me repeat it. Keep talking."

"Well, I must admit my anger surged  and I raced up the stairs after her into your office. She had already strewn the papers everywhere looking for your revolver. When I entered, she screamed for me to leave. I refused of course, so she threw your lamp at me. I dodged it only to be bombarded with that hideous chair. She tried to cripple me. I let my rage take over and soon I found myself pushing her and her feeble attempts to fight me off never succeeded until we stumbled into your desk. She had a free hand. I was blind, John. Blind. She reached for the opener and punctured my shoulder. We struggled to the floor after that, trying to subdue her. Of course I ignored my wound until it fell from my flesh. She screamed all the while hoarsing her voice. That's when I started choking her, my rage finally taking complete control. But...I came to my senses and let her free. She lay there coughing before looking up at me. She once more reached for the fallen lancet, but i kicked it away. Like a mad woman, she rose to her feet lunging for me again. We ended up toppling onto the balcony." Sherlock stopped and looked at his friend.

"And then?" John coaxed now finished with his sewing.

"I...."Sherlock cleared his throat, "forced her....over the railing..."

Silence. Silence. More silence.

"John," Sherlock whispered asking John to look at him. "It was not an accident."

"And...that's why you left me...to find you out."

"I wanted to make sure you knew it was me who did it. I knew you were smart, my dear. I knew you would pick up on my methods eventually. I never doubted you. I'm glad we shared our love. That's all I wanted, but then she had to ruin it for us....for me. I know I'm a selfish bastard, but I'm happy. And yet...she was your wife. I'm so sorry, old boy. I'm sorry for letting my rage take control of me. I'm sorry she betrayed you. And I'm sorry for ruining your trust. I don't expect forgivness and I'm prepared for any vengeance you wish to embed against me."

John sat there staring at the tears running down Sherlock's face. Crying was contagious. He quickly wiped his mouth before standing. He reached under Holmes' arms t lift him as best he could with Sherlock meeting him half way. Sherlock replaced his shirt and coat and straightened out as much as he could. The dull ache of his shoulder made it hard to move his arm. It had gone numb.

John grabbed Sherlock's hand entwining their fingers and lead them out of the room. They hobbled sadly down the hallway towards the mortician who had resumed reading his newspaper. He looked up at the men as they walked past.

"The arrangements, sir?" he called out to John. He questioned their hands being interlaced together, but didn't say anything.

"Tomorrow," John replied over his shoulder before he escorted him self and his friend outside.

John hailed a cab and help Sherlock sit. Soon, they were moving and Sherlock knew where. Their hands never separated.

They were returning to the scene.

*******

TBC