The Colour of Ash
Mar. 3rd, 2011 10:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roselizeHis eyes meet John's and there is no need for words. A silent question, an almost imperceptible nod and the moment passes. Sherlock turns away.
"I guess my answer's crossed yours".
He lowers his gun. For a second everything is quiet. Then the room disintegrates in a rush of light and colour.
That's the last thing Sherlock remembers. When he opens his eyes again he is perched on the living room sofa in 221B Baker Street, holding the bow of his violin in one limp hand. The instrument itself lies in the fireplace and casts a shimmering glow over the room as it burns. It doesn't matter to much, though. He's upset about the loss of his violin of course, but all he feels at this precise moment is an unspeakable relief, for John Watson sits next to him, alive and evidently unhurt. An unlit cigarette rests in his open palm. Odd, Sherlock muses. John is a non-smoker.
Sherlock scans the room. The flat is still an organized chaos of case files and empty tea cups. Nothing is out of the ordinary...except for the windows. For some strange reason, the windows are gone. The whole wall is gone. Instead Sherlock is looking out at the swimming pool where once upon a time, a boy named Carl Powers lost his life in a mass of chlorine tinged water.
Only it's not a pool at all. It's a river. It's the Thames. Sherlock frowns. There are voices in the wind but no matter how hard he tries, he can't quite make out what they're saying.
His thoughts are interrupted by the man standing behind him.
"Cosy, isn't it?" Jim Moriarty chirps, gesturing to the fire in the grate. Then his delicate, almost feminine hand flutters down onto Sherlock's neck.
"Hope you don't mind about the violin. It's just that I couldn't find any firewood so I had to..." his voice darts through an octave, picking notes at random "...improvise." Sherlock recoils as lethal, spider-leg fingers trace lightly over his skin.
"But then again, my darling", Moriarty continues, "I am rather good at improvising. I'm rather good at a lot of things. So good in fact that..."
He pauses for a moment, leans in closer. When he speaks again his tone is a caress.
"...they call me 'the Napoleon of crime'", he croons, almost lovingly, into Sherlock's ear.
"I'll see you at Waterloo then."
"No you won't", Moriarty trills as he moves, no, dances away. He spots John's umbrella lying in a corner and picks it up. "No one ever gets to me", he says somewhat smugly as he twirls it round and round in a striking parody of Mycroft. "And no-one ever will". Then the grin vanishes from his face and he turns towards the sofa, suddenly serious.
"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?" Moriarty asks and Sherlock is overcome by a disturbing sense of Deja Vu. The answer (has he given it before?) rises easily to his lips.
"Oh, let me guess. I get killed."
Jim smiles pleasantly.
"Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway some day," he says as he reaches into the pocket of his overpriced suit and pulls out a lighter. "I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no." Moriarty's lighter morphs into a match as Moriarty's smile morphs into a threat. "If you don't stop prying...I'll burn you."
Moriarty moves forward, match in hand and Sherlock can see the flame reflected in his nemesis' eyes.
"I'll burn the heart out of you," he whispers as he lights John's cigarette.
Sherlock suppresses a shudder. "You've said that to me before," he says, "in a dream".
Jim laughs. "You've got it wrong, my darling. This is the dream. And if you don't open your eyes soon, sexy..." he turns around and leaves, not bothering to finish his sentence. Sherlock watches his silhouette melt into the London skyline.
"He's right," John tells him. "Wake up."
"What happens if I don't?" The question doesn't seem particularly important but Sherlock asks it anyway.
Strange, uncharacteristic: John doesn't reply. How come? Sherlock watches him carefully, notices that he's trying to keep his face expressionless but bites his lip for a fleeting second before fixing his gaze on the fireplace. John seems determined to avoid eye contact which can only mean three things: 1. He feels guilty (improbable – no cause for guilt), 2. He doesn't want Sherlock to know (unrealistic – John is aware of the fact that all attempts at hiding information from Sherlock are futile) or 3. He can't take giving Sherlock the answer (more likely). So, logically it follows that if John can't face the truth it must be –
"Oh," Sherlock exclaims. "Simple, simple! Obvious! I'm dying". John pretends he hasn't heard. He's trying to smoke but the cigarette in his hand disintegrates, falls apart and his fingers are the colour of ash.
For several minutes, neither of them speaks. The silence stretches between them.
"You surprised me," John says finally, "at the pool. When I grabbed Moriarty and you refused to run."
A pause. "You should have run, Sherlock."
Sherlock shrugs. "You would have been killed if I had," he answers.
"I know but... still. I expected you to run".
Idiot. John Watson is an idiot. They've lived under the same roof for months now and still John fails to realize the strikingly obvious fact that Sherlock cares. How could he not? He needs John. Needs his early morning smiles, his unspoken belief that tea solves all problems, the look on his face at the mention of danger. Sherlock depends on their childish squabbles about who will wash the dishes and buy the milk, the occasional brush of their hands as they examine evidence. He needs John because John is kind and quiet and brave. Because he is the only real friend Sherlock has ever had. He has a sudden, pressing urge to tell John this, but the words choke him, stick in his throat.
"Once again your expectations were wrong," he snaps. He can't force himself to meet John's eyes and why does everything have to be so frustrating? Sherlock opens his mouth, stutters, feels ridiculous and is about to plunge into another meaningless sentence, when John cuts him off.
"It's all right Sherlock", John says. "I understand."
It is then that Sherlock first becomes aware of the pain. It sneaks up on him, silently, stealthily; a mere ache at first that intensifies with each passing second until it becomes a crescendo that, try as he might, Sherlock cannot ignore. No wonder. The open wound that used to be his left shoulder screams.
There is a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson enters the room, carrying a tray of biscuits. "Sherlock," she says fondly, "the mess you've made! I'm putting this on your rent, young man". She gestures to the carpet which, Sherlock now realizes, is covered in his blood. "Never knew how to take care of yourself," she fusses as she deposits the tray onto the kitchen counter. "Always getting into scrapes. When I first met you -"
Sherlock stops listening. The pain recedes a little as a deep, delicious drowsiness smothers his senses. Outside, the evening sky darkens into night. Clouds, heavy with coming rain obstruct the stars, and the wind breathes ripples across the surface of the river. A surreal, tremulous tension stirs the air and Sherlock is convinced that London, shrouded in mist and mysteries, has never looked this beautiful.
"Now or never". John's voice is soft.
"What?" Mrs Hudson has left and they are alone again.
"You've got to come back to reality, Sherlock. Wake up. Right now. You..." John swallows and takes a deep breath before continuing, "...you don't have much time left".
Sherlock doesn't reply. He's too busy watching the blood soak into his coat, creating a stubborn stain that he knows he'll never be able to remove. Pity. He loved that coat. But it's ruined now.
Everything is ruined now.
He doesn't know how he knows but nevertheless he is certain that somewhere, John Watson – the real John Watson – is screaming his name.
Slowly, Sherlock turns his head and stares at the murky waters of the Thames. It has begun to rain and for a while Sherlock simply listens to the sound of countless drops hitting the restless surface of the river. He closes his eyes.
"Now or never, Sherlock," the John beside him repeats and his voice doesn't break. Not quite. "Wake up".
Sherlock tries to nod but every movement hurts. Besides, he's exhausted, so exhausted he can hardly think. And the fire is very warm.
"Just a little longer," he murmurs.
John takes his hand and slowly, gently intertwines their fingers – a tender mess of skin, sweat and blood. He's sobbing now, very quietly, and Sherlock doesn't know what to say. Instead, he rests his head on John's shoulder and for a moment everything is alright. John may be crying, but at least he's here, safe, alive, breathing next to him and it's terribly easy to forget the pain. Sherlock inhales John's comforting, familiar scent – the smell of warmth, the smell of home. He smiles as John begins to stroke his hair.
"Wake up," John pleads. His hand is shaking. "Sherlock, wake up".
Sherlock tries to move, to wrench his eyes open, but it hurts and now everything blurs into a hazy collage of thought and pain and...
"Please, Sherlock. Wake up".
...and he will, in a minute.
"Just a little longer".
John doesn't reply. There is no need for words.
The moment passes.
"I guess my answer's crossed yours".
He lowers his gun. For a second everything is quiet. Then the room disintegrates in a rush of light and colour.
That's the last thing Sherlock remembers. When he opens his eyes again he is perched on the living room sofa in 221B Baker Street, holding the bow of his violin in one limp hand. The instrument itself lies in the fireplace and casts a shimmering glow over the room as it burns. It doesn't matter to much, though. He's upset about the loss of his violin of course, but all he feels at this precise moment is an unspeakable relief, for John Watson sits next to him, alive and evidently unhurt. An unlit cigarette rests in his open palm. Odd, Sherlock muses. John is a non-smoker.
Sherlock scans the room. The flat is still an organized chaos of case files and empty tea cups. Nothing is out of the ordinary...except for the windows. For some strange reason, the windows are gone. The whole wall is gone. Instead Sherlock is looking out at the swimming pool where once upon a time, a boy named Carl Powers lost his life in a mass of chlorine tinged water.
Only it's not a pool at all. It's a river. It's the Thames. Sherlock frowns. There are voices in the wind but no matter how hard he tries, he can't quite make out what they're saying.
His thoughts are interrupted by the man standing behind him.
"Cosy, isn't it?" Jim Moriarty chirps, gesturing to the fire in the grate. Then his delicate, almost feminine hand flutters down onto Sherlock's neck.
"Hope you don't mind about the violin. It's just that I couldn't find any firewood so I had to..." his voice darts through an octave, picking notes at random "...improvise." Sherlock recoils as lethal, spider-leg fingers trace lightly over his skin.
"But then again, my darling", Moriarty continues, "I am rather good at improvising. I'm rather good at a lot of things. So good in fact that..."
He pauses for a moment, leans in closer. When he speaks again his tone is a caress.
"...they call me 'the Napoleon of crime'", he croons, almost lovingly, into Sherlock's ear.
"I'll see you at Waterloo then."
"No you won't", Moriarty trills as he moves, no, dances away. He spots John's umbrella lying in a corner and picks it up. "No one ever gets to me", he says somewhat smugly as he twirls it round and round in a striking parody of Mycroft. "And no-one ever will". Then the grin vanishes from his face and he turns towards the sofa, suddenly serious.
"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?" Moriarty asks and Sherlock is overcome by a disturbing sense of Deja Vu. The answer (has he given it before?) rises easily to his lips.
"Oh, let me guess. I get killed."
Jim smiles pleasantly.
"Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway some day," he says as he reaches into the pocket of his overpriced suit and pulls out a lighter. "I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no." Moriarty's lighter morphs into a match as Moriarty's smile morphs into a threat. "If you don't stop prying...I'll burn you."
Moriarty moves forward, match in hand and Sherlock can see the flame reflected in his nemesis' eyes.
"I'll burn the heart out of you," he whispers as he lights John's cigarette.
Sherlock suppresses a shudder. "You've said that to me before," he says, "in a dream".
Jim laughs. "You've got it wrong, my darling. This is the dream. And if you don't open your eyes soon, sexy..." he turns around and leaves, not bothering to finish his sentence. Sherlock watches his silhouette melt into the London skyline.
"He's right," John tells him. "Wake up."
"What happens if I don't?" The question doesn't seem particularly important but Sherlock asks it anyway.
Strange, uncharacteristic: John doesn't reply. How come? Sherlock watches him carefully, notices that he's trying to keep his face expressionless but bites his lip for a fleeting second before fixing his gaze on the fireplace. John seems determined to avoid eye contact which can only mean three things: 1. He feels guilty (improbable – no cause for guilt), 2. He doesn't want Sherlock to know (unrealistic – John is aware of the fact that all attempts at hiding information from Sherlock are futile) or 3. He can't take giving Sherlock the answer (more likely). So, logically it follows that if John can't face the truth it must be –
"Oh," Sherlock exclaims. "Simple, simple! Obvious! I'm dying". John pretends he hasn't heard. He's trying to smoke but the cigarette in his hand disintegrates, falls apart and his fingers are the colour of ash.
For several minutes, neither of them speaks. The silence stretches between them.
"You surprised me," John says finally, "at the pool. When I grabbed Moriarty and you refused to run."
A pause. "You should have run, Sherlock."
Sherlock shrugs. "You would have been killed if I had," he answers.
"I know but... still. I expected you to run".
Idiot. John Watson is an idiot. They've lived under the same roof for months now and still John fails to realize the strikingly obvious fact that Sherlock cares. How could he not? He needs John. Needs his early morning smiles, his unspoken belief that tea solves all problems, the look on his face at the mention of danger. Sherlock depends on their childish squabbles about who will wash the dishes and buy the milk, the occasional brush of their hands as they examine evidence. He needs John because John is kind and quiet and brave. Because he is the only real friend Sherlock has ever had. He has a sudden, pressing urge to tell John this, but the words choke him, stick in his throat.
"Once again your expectations were wrong," he snaps. He can't force himself to meet John's eyes and why does everything have to be so frustrating? Sherlock opens his mouth, stutters, feels ridiculous and is about to plunge into another meaningless sentence, when John cuts him off.
"It's all right Sherlock", John says. "I understand."
It is then that Sherlock first becomes aware of the pain. It sneaks up on him, silently, stealthily; a mere ache at first that intensifies with each passing second until it becomes a crescendo that, try as he might, Sherlock cannot ignore. No wonder. The open wound that used to be his left shoulder screams.
There is a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson enters the room, carrying a tray of biscuits. "Sherlock," she says fondly, "the mess you've made! I'm putting this on your rent, young man". She gestures to the carpet which, Sherlock now realizes, is covered in his blood. "Never knew how to take care of yourself," she fusses as she deposits the tray onto the kitchen counter. "Always getting into scrapes. When I first met you -"
Sherlock stops listening. The pain recedes a little as a deep, delicious drowsiness smothers his senses. Outside, the evening sky darkens into night. Clouds, heavy with coming rain obstruct the stars, and the wind breathes ripples across the surface of the river. A surreal, tremulous tension stirs the air and Sherlock is convinced that London, shrouded in mist and mysteries, has never looked this beautiful.
"Now or never". John's voice is soft.
"What?" Mrs Hudson has left and they are alone again.
"You've got to come back to reality, Sherlock. Wake up. Right now. You..." John swallows and takes a deep breath before continuing, "...you don't have much time left".
Sherlock doesn't reply. He's too busy watching the blood soak into his coat, creating a stubborn stain that he knows he'll never be able to remove. Pity. He loved that coat. But it's ruined now.
Everything is ruined now.
He doesn't know how he knows but nevertheless he is certain that somewhere, John Watson – the real John Watson – is screaming his name.
Slowly, Sherlock turns his head and stares at the murky waters of the Thames. It has begun to rain and for a while Sherlock simply listens to the sound of countless drops hitting the restless surface of the river. He closes his eyes.
"Now or never, Sherlock," the John beside him repeats and his voice doesn't break. Not quite. "Wake up".
Sherlock tries to nod but every movement hurts. Besides, he's exhausted, so exhausted he can hardly think. And the fire is very warm.
"Just a little longer," he murmurs.
John takes his hand and slowly, gently intertwines their fingers – a tender mess of skin, sweat and blood. He's sobbing now, very quietly, and Sherlock doesn't know what to say. Instead, he rests his head on John's shoulder and for a moment everything is alright. John may be crying, but at least he's here, safe, alive, breathing next to him and it's terribly easy to forget the pain. Sherlock inhales John's comforting, familiar scent – the smell of warmth, the smell of home. He smiles as John begins to stroke his hair.
"Wake up," John pleads. His hand is shaking. "Sherlock, wake up".
Sherlock tries to move, to wrench his eyes open, but it hurts and now everything blurs into a hazy collage of thought and pain and...
"Please, Sherlock. Wake up".
...and he will, in a minute.
"Just a little longer".
John doesn't reply. There is no need for words.
The moment passes.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-04 02:16 am (UTC)