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Summary
There are two bodies on the ground, and Sherlock was once-dead but now isn't, and he can't think anything but johnjohnjohnfindjohnsavejohn but John is not here, even though his name is on the lease, and this is his flat, and his fianceé is on the ground with a snapped neck, and Lestrade looks so very, very tired, and Mycroft is so stoic and unflappable, and Sherlock Holmes is falling apart at the seams.
EDIT: It appears that some are misjudging what, exactly, "angst" means. This is not heart-warming. This is not happy. This is based off of T.S. Eliot's very-not-happy-actually-rather-bleak poem, "The Hollow Men". If you are looking for something happy and heart-warming, something that makes you leave feeling warm and good inside, this is not what you should read and I don't know what I can do for you here.
Series
- Part 1 of The Thoughts of Hollow Men