He can smell the mulch underneath his fingernails. He tastes the dirt and blood in his teeth. His chest burns furiously, muscles aching for oxygen.
It’s dark. He tries to reconcile the idea that no one knows where he is. The air is suspended, held up by the stars. Sherlock tries to remember who was there, how many of them there were, but even now he cannot remember certain basic facts.
The memory is faded, too surreal to be true, but some parts are so vivid he cannot deny them. The smell of leather shoes and quiet, hurried breaths and cold, cold hands. It must have happened, he thinks. It must have happened because I cannot get the taste of them out of my mouth.
He doesn’t remember, but his senses do.
The trees are shadows. We made a nice little spot for you, Sherlock. Come sit down for a minute. Have a quiet chat. The chewing gum will take the taste away, I promise.
Nobody would have found him in time.
His ears are ringing with the quiet. God was gone.