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“John! John!”
The desperate cry echoed through the empty halls of 221b Baker street. The broken door dangled from a single hinge, finally giving in and falling to the floor with a resounding crash as Sherlock stormed through, flying up the stairs, torn coat fluttering behind him. Halfway up, he tripped over a discarded shoe, his shoulder ramming into the step and his head smacking the floor. His vision exploded in a flurry of white-black pinpricks. He pushed through, ignoring the warm wetness trickling down his face as he crawled back to his feet. He lurched forward, stumbling the rest of the way up the stairs. He slammed open the door to the flat. “John!”
His rasping breaths slowed as he caught sight of the shining silver figure standing by the window, sunlight glinting off its armor. “John?”
The being turned to him with a hiss of hydraulics. Sherlock stared into the gaping holes where warm brown eyes should have gazed back. Then the thing spoke in its artificial voice. “John Watson has been upgraded.”
Sherlock fell back against the wall, legs giving out beneath him. He looked at the Cyberman desperately. He forced out a whisper. “No…”
“John Watson has been upgraded,” the thing repeated.
He pulled himself away from the wall, staggering across the room to where the thing stood. It was taller than him. He had to crane his neck back to gaze at the emotionless face. He raised pale, shaking hands to grasp the handles protruding from his best friend’s head. Tears flowed freely. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cold, unfeeling metal. He shuddered and gasped, wracked with desperate sobs. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this…” he whispered brokenly. “I’m the one who is supposed to be the machine…”
The creature took a step back, shaking the floor with heavy feet. Sherlock fell forward onto the floor, landing on his hands and knees. He stayed there, trembling, staring down. His curly hair, damp with sweat and blood, hung limply around his face. He didn’t move, even as the huge metal hand grabbed him by his torn collar. The thing tugged, and he collapsed, dropping to the ground bonelessly. It began walking, dragging him along behind it. He did nothing. He stared vacantly, eyes dead and empty. The being spoke again. “You will be upgraded.”
Sherlock didn’t move, even as he was hauled carelessly down the stairs. Splinters of wood and shards of glass cut into him, tearing through skin and slicing through flesh. He didn’t care.
John Watson was gone.
And with him went Sherlock’s reason to live.