Sherlock was beautiful in death. Streaks of scarlet liquid streaming across prominent cheekbones, dripping down into a halo of ruby, growing larger by the second; the contrast of his raven hair and ghostly pallor even more prominent now. The juxtaposition of his steely grey eyes and the warm red of the blood pooling around his head was striking. Those eyes, that used to be vibrant and so alive now motionless, lifeless, helpless.

He was positioned just so he looked like he was walking, stalking, lurking around a crime scene; arm stretched outward as if in preparation to observe his surroundings; or perhaps reaching to John right until the moment his body slammed, smashed, crashed against the ground. His infamous coat, once swished and swayed, now heaped around his fragile body, only emphasising the lack of movement where there used to be so much.

His eyes never closed; it was as though he was deducing the world right until his final moments. He had wanted to know everything. He wanted to be informed. Inquisitive. Intrusive. Invasive. Even as a crumpled heap on the ground, his bones broken, skull shattered, back bent in two, he cast a condescending, haughty glance at the world, as if to say 'is this really all death has to offer? How utterly boring' in that smooth baritone.

Beautiful.