I huddle in a cold waiting room, along with Lestrade. I look down at the ground, pulling my coat around my blood-soaked shirt. His blood, my shirt. The stiffness of the material scratches against my skin, like rats working to claw their way free from a trap. Trap. I’m trapped. I have allowed myself to feel and I am now reaping the whirlwind. Lestrade pats my shoulder. I am grateful that he doesn’t offer ineffective platitudes.
I surprise myself when I speak first. “He sacrificed himself for me. Everyone does that at some point, don’t they? Be the hero. Save Sherlock. I abused him in every sense of the word and now he is going to die.”
Lestrade takes a sip of his coffee. “Let’s just wait for the Doctor, shall we?”
I nod, dreading to be left alone with my thoughts. I am hateful and spiteful. I deserve to be left alone. Anderson, oh god, Anderson, what hurt most the machete as it pierced your abdomen or me as I pierced your heart?
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