Sherlock Fic: Category Two; Chapter Two
“Then how could I have missed that one detail?” he asks and he bends his finger and pulls the trigger and Johns knows the pain and he falls over and inversely Sherlock tilts backwards too, no window, no glass, he falls and disappears out of the hole in 221b Baker Street and leaves only the cold behind.
Warnings: dark, moody, detached body parts, death
Wordcount: 12 Chapters, ~7,648 words
Disclaimer: I don't own them, of course, but I like them, that's why I write about them.
Slash: Sherlock/John
Notes: I originally wrote this fanfiction in german. Then I translated it into english to reach the whole fandom. I hope this doesn't make the story worse. Feel free to point out language mistakes ;)
~~~ Chapter Two ~~~
Baker Street. The sofa, files are scattered, each file detailed, pictures, notes, annotations made with a red marker in curved handwriting, the violin, the bow, so far apart from each other like they have been tossed.
Sherlock is sitting on the windowsill, the right one, books carelessly thrown to the floor, paper, his face averted. The sun is low, almost disappearing behind the building on the opposite; the incident sunlight makes the dust visible and enlarges Sherlocks shadow, it grows over the floor and up the wall. John is standing in the door case. Not moving.
“Three small scars just under the waistband”, Sherlock says to the window. “Chronic intestinal disease, most probably MC, impossible to say without the patient file, multiple surgeries, different doctors. Sleeves rolled up, he didn’t do that by himself, one side is rolled up a bit more, another person did this. Short finger nails, cut clean, well nail bed, soft skin. He usually doesn’t wear rings, therefore the ring is new. It is often detached and put in pockets and forgotten, although it is new it’s already scratched a lot.”
Sherlock deduces, interprets observations out of nowhere. He links them, each detail seamlessly follows the next, he explains theories, proves points, reveals secrets, comments accidents and finds the murderer. He never rests, he doesn’t breathe.
“Two children. Both girls, twins, teenagers. They like to change identities, the stepfather can’t tell them apart. The wife is a gardener.”
John is watching the dust floating down to the floor, rising up again, trundle through the air. Without moving his feet he suddenly gets closer to Sherlock, it’s like a zoom, a magnification of the scene. He’s standing right behind Sherlock by the window. Looks outside, the streets are empty, no cars, no humans. No lights in the windows of the building opposite, which lays in the shadows. The sun almost disappeared behind it. John puts his arm forth, his fingers floating above Sherlocks head, he tries to reach the glass but there is none. The window is just a hole in 221b through which the flat sucks in cold air.
“She used to be blonde, dyed her hair to obviate clichés, she doesn’t want to be judged because of her look. Three scratches on the upper arm, much too collateral to be a coincidence, therefore induced. The younger brother is our suspect.”
The voice, calm, deep, is vibrating. It expands, grows louder, floods the room along with the cold. It booms out of Sherlock, each new detail echoes through the space. John pulls his arms back, puts his hands over his ears, everything goes hollow, his ears are getting warm. Sherlock is still speaking but no words, just drone, hissing. John can’t see his face, only watches Sherlocks body move slightly while talking, his position unchanged, no gestures.
Suddenly all goes silent. Every move freezes. John lowers his arms, the room is chilly, it expands, filling up with white exhalation clouds. John breathes. Sherlock doesn’t.
Rising his arm again, John wants to touch Sherlocks shoulder, the tips of his fingers feel numb, he can’t feel the fabric of Sherlocks shirt.
Sherlock turns around; suddenly he points a gun at John, taking aim at an undefined spot between his eyes. John stares into the muzzle, and then down the arm that holds the weapon. Behind it there are Sherlocks eyes, ice in a white face. The pupils wide and black between crystalline irises.
“The details, John, I can see them all. Like small side notes. I read them all and put them together. I file them in an imaginary folder and access it when I need to. I delete objects in my head that are useless to make space for more important information. I can tell people things about them which even they themselves don’t know. I make conclusions, connect the dots and create a network. Nothing stays hidden for me, you know? It is all there, in front of me, I can see it all. I deduce and I am right. That’s how I work.”
No breaths from Sherlock, in front of John are still small white clouds. The chill is in every corner, freezes the room, frost crackles on the files and books and cushions and tea cups. John shivers. Sherlock opens his mouth again, lips curled, pale, slender bridge, glassy eyes above.
“Then how could I have missed that one detail?” he asks and he bends his finger and pulls the trigger and Johns knows the pain and he falls over and inversely Sherlock tilts backwards too, no window, no glass, he falls and disappears out of the hole in 221b Baker Street and leaves only the cold behind.
John doesn’t startle. He just opens his eyes and is awake. His finger tips are numb. It is five weeks after Sherlocks fall.
Warnings: dark, moody, detached body parts, death
Wordcount: 12 Chapters, ~7,648 words
Disclaimer: I don't own them, of course, but I like them, that's why I write about them.
Slash: Sherlock/John
Notes: I originally wrote this fanfiction in german. Then I translated it into english to reach the whole fandom. I hope this doesn't make the story worse. Feel free to point out language mistakes ;)
~~~ Chapter Two ~~~
Baker Street. The sofa, files are scattered, each file detailed, pictures, notes, annotations made with a red marker in curved handwriting, the violin, the bow, so far apart from each other like they have been tossed.
Sherlock is sitting on the windowsill, the right one, books carelessly thrown to the floor, paper, his face averted. The sun is low, almost disappearing behind the building on the opposite; the incident sunlight makes the dust visible and enlarges Sherlocks shadow, it grows over the floor and up the wall. John is standing in the door case. Not moving.
“Three small scars just under the waistband”, Sherlock says to the window. “Chronic intestinal disease, most probably MC, impossible to say without the patient file, multiple surgeries, different doctors. Sleeves rolled up, he didn’t do that by himself, one side is rolled up a bit more, another person did this. Short finger nails, cut clean, well nail bed, soft skin. He usually doesn’t wear rings, therefore the ring is new. It is often detached and put in pockets and forgotten, although it is new it’s already scratched a lot.”
Sherlock deduces, interprets observations out of nowhere. He links them, each detail seamlessly follows the next, he explains theories, proves points, reveals secrets, comments accidents and finds the murderer. He never rests, he doesn’t breathe.
“Two children. Both girls, twins, teenagers. They like to change identities, the stepfather can’t tell them apart. The wife is a gardener.”
John is watching the dust floating down to the floor, rising up again, trundle through the air. Without moving his feet he suddenly gets closer to Sherlock, it’s like a zoom, a magnification of the scene. He’s standing right behind Sherlock by the window. Looks outside, the streets are empty, no cars, no humans. No lights in the windows of the building opposite, which lays in the shadows. The sun almost disappeared behind it. John puts his arm forth, his fingers floating above Sherlocks head, he tries to reach the glass but there is none. The window is just a hole in 221b through which the flat sucks in cold air.
“She used to be blonde, dyed her hair to obviate clichés, she doesn’t want to be judged because of her look. Three scratches on the upper arm, much too collateral to be a coincidence, therefore induced. The younger brother is our suspect.”
The voice, calm, deep, is vibrating. It expands, grows louder, floods the room along with the cold. It booms out of Sherlock, each new detail echoes through the space. John pulls his arms back, puts his hands over his ears, everything goes hollow, his ears are getting warm. Sherlock is still speaking but no words, just drone, hissing. John can’t see his face, only watches Sherlocks body move slightly while talking, his position unchanged, no gestures.
Suddenly all goes silent. Every move freezes. John lowers his arms, the room is chilly, it expands, filling up with white exhalation clouds. John breathes. Sherlock doesn’t.
Rising his arm again, John wants to touch Sherlocks shoulder, the tips of his fingers feel numb, he can’t feel the fabric of Sherlocks shirt.
Sherlock turns around; suddenly he points a gun at John, taking aim at an undefined spot between his eyes. John stares into the muzzle, and then down the arm that holds the weapon. Behind it there are Sherlocks eyes, ice in a white face. The pupils wide and black between crystalline irises.
“The details, John, I can see them all. Like small side notes. I read them all and put them together. I file them in an imaginary folder and access it when I need to. I delete objects in my head that are useless to make space for more important information. I can tell people things about them which even they themselves don’t know. I make conclusions, connect the dots and create a network. Nothing stays hidden for me, you know? It is all there, in front of me, I can see it all. I deduce and I am right. That’s how I work.”
No breaths from Sherlock, in front of John are still small white clouds. The chill is in every corner, freezes the room, frost crackles on the files and books and cushions and tea cups. John shivers. Sherlock opens his mouth again, lips curled, pale, slender bridge, glassy eyes above.
“Then how could I have missed that one detail?” he asks and he bends his finger and pulls the trigger and Johns knows the pain and he falls over and inversely Sherlock tilts backwards too, no window, no glass, he falls and disappears out of the hole in 221b Baker Street and leaves only the cold behind.
John doesn’t startle. He just opens his eyes and is awake. His finger tips are numb. It is five weeks after Sherlocks fall.