Aaagh. God. I think I died. A bit. Painful doesn't even begin to cover this.
I'm going to read After Love now, hoping it will make me feel better. Somehow I doubt it.

Love the Decemberists!

Ooooh - are we finally getting there? How will he find his way back to John? I can't wait to get there!

"he runs to the line where the world is cut in two, the canal bridging east and west, the bridge he hopes he has not burned completely, the bridge he hopes he remembers how to cross, to the man he hopes will be there on the other side."

More lovely desperation for poor Sherlock:

** He aches for John's steady, soothing hands to wring the poison out of him, brush his matted hair back from his forehead, bring cool water to his lips. John's soft, warm hands, to bless each piece of him, plant sweet seeds of relief. John's firm, strong hands, to press his words against his wounds to stop the bleeding in his heart.

And the fever dreams - such torture for our poor man!

** John's voice sends electric shocks of shame through him, every mistake he ever made flashing in his veins . . . John's sad sighs, after all the times he snarled and bit at the heart of their friendship like a wounded dog.

Angst a-plenty, indeed. Thank you!

So very many wonderful bits!
** I shiver all the time, a layer of frost under my solitary skin. I don't remember the last time someone touched me without a knife in his hands.

** I don't deserve to be touched kindly anymore. I am not a good man. I am not even a great one, now.

-

** I never thought I would burn out my own heart so beautifully. This charred, cold hollowness. I fill my empty soul with the blood of everyone I've destroyed, all their wretched, ragged pieces. I eat their hearts and they knit together in my chest, talk to me in my sleep.

-

** All these little steps back to you. Every man dead at my hands or locked away in a tiny hole in the earth. These are my offerings to you. If I bring enough blood home, I can make us alive again.

** I wish it were not at the cost of everything I hold dear.

This story is so very lovely and DARK! (But I really hope Sherlock and John will be able to recover after all of this, and the depths they are each falling into make me doubt the possibilities!)
I'm looking forward to seeing what you have for us next...

Another beautully written piece. Thanks for sharing.

Almost speechless on finishing this part.
From Sherlock's instruction to Mycroft to not tell him anything, to "tell me everything", and the absolute soul-rending torment that follows - you've imagined this in a terrifying yet somehow beautiful way.
Amazing.

AHHHH! I desperately need to read the next series but I also desperately need to go to bed! THE HUMANITY. ...perhaps just the first chapter...?

No, Sherlock! Don't go down that dark path! Keep yourself whole for your John!

Oh, this made my heart hurt.

Ohhhh... Hearing john's voice through Moran. Profound.

That he goes to where John is shot, moved me.

Opening up his body to see what is left of Sherlock is marvelous. Wow those dreams.

I don't deserve to be touched kindly anymore. I am not a good man. I am not even a great one, now. Wow. I feel like I'm inside the mind of a tortured soul. Bravo.

I want to rest, John. I never thought I would hear myself say that, but I do. I want to sleep in the bags of your eyes and the crooks of your elbows. I want to stitch the patterns of your ridiculous jumpers into my flesh to keep myself warm. Wow. Those are powerful sentences that make me shiver.