We weren’t really acknowledging the possibility that Sherlock could die. That we’d get him back in a box. We knew he was with dangerous people, people who’d kill him to keep their own secrets. But Sherlock couldn’t die, could he? He was immortal. At least he’d always seemed that way to me. Invincible and eternal. Larger than life and bigger than everyone. Taller and louder and deeper and smarter and just more. Who could kill him, and how? Surely it wouldn’t do to just use a gun or a knife or your bare hands. Wouldn’t you need silver bullets or magical incantations or some sort of ancient Mayan voodoo?
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