The day when Death bowed to John Watson
Oh God, this is me posting yet another Sherlock inspired story. Someone kill me.
And all happened within seconds, I've been walking down the street in a sunny winter afternoon, looked up to the sky covered with the most beautiful set of cirrus uncinus clouds I've ever seen (pity that it always foretells a change of weather), and I thought immediately that they look like angel's wings... and there was the story, all of a sudden, yelling at me write write write!
So I did.
This particular story refers to the ending on the unaired pilot, which differs hugely from the official version, much to my disappointment. I liked the pilot version so much better. It shows John's strength of character, actually letting him to have an upper hand on Sherlock, and Sherlock himself looks so... touchingly human in this scene.
Please, watch it, it's worthy.
First time when John encountered death he was only eight years old.
It had looked so innocently at first. His favourite uncle choking on a mouthful of wine during their Christmas Eve dinner. He even managed to half laugh through the fits of cough and spit out some words amongst the wine droplets about him being an utter idiot. It was only few second later when John noticed his hand, clutched convulsively to his chest, and face going suddenly purple. He jumped from his chair and made way for his father, already on his way to help.
It’s been like a strange sort of dream, flickering light of the candles blinding him, sounds of voices and shouts coming from a great distance. His father ordering his mother to call the ambulance, muttered words about another heart attack, too soon, I told him not to exert himself, I told him… his favourite aunt trembling and wide-eyed, spilling a useless glass of water all over their new dining room rug… He felt suddenly so cold, so cold that his heart almost refused to beat, and he clung to his mother’s arms and watched all the world turning dim…
It was then when he saw it.
Tall creature, thin and frail, woven of glimmering light, moved noiselessly through the shadowy room, pearly-white wings spreading to the ceiling like cirrus uncinus over a pale winter sky. John saw it and it felt like if it was the only real thing in the room, aside from the dying bulk of his uncle’s body.
John left his shadowy self sobbing in his mother’s arms and run to cross its way, small hands clenched in a childish desperation.
Step aside, little boy.
“Leave him alone!”
He already is alone. I’m taking him where he belongs.
“He belongs to Auntie and Nickie and Poppy! You can’t take him, he’s a good man!”
It’s not a question of goodness, John.
Silvery blue eyes burned in that unearthly face and that gaze has been enough to force John one step aside. The Death knelt by the dying man and lifted his visible shape of the ground, leaving only a shadow of his dead body on the grey floor.
“You’re so cruel! He could have lived!”
I do not take lives, John. It’s only the deaths I claim. Now be a good boy and hold that door open for me, would you?
The boy obeyed reluctantly, opening the door for the Death to pass out, leaving the shadow of the real door still in its frame.
“I won’t let you next time. I’ll chase you down and I’ll beat you,” he swore under his breath.
Till next time, John.
***
The second time he hasn’t even noticed the sudden chill, the greyness, the muffling of the world around him. He’s been too busy pressing his finger to his best mate’s artery, shouting orders, calling for his supportive unit. It’s the adrenaline daze, my eyes are blinded by the ever-present sand in the wind, he said to himself…
Hallo, John.
“No. Not you. Not now.”
The seeing John has taken two shattered steps back, watching his shadowy hands continuing in their desperate and futile attempts to prevent his mate’s blood drowning in the desert sand.
“Don’t take him. He’s my best friend.”
It’s not a question of friendship, John.
“Damn it, I’m still here! And I won’t let him go!”
I rather like you, John.
That’s why he never remembered being shot, at least what he told them when they asked later. He was only sure of one thing - days and weeks later, when he recovered from the wound in the shoulder only to be sent home due to his fucking psychosomatic limping leg - he still heard the soft laughter echoed in the Afghanistan desert.
***
He threw open the door to the front room in that unused building on the other side of Baker Street, breathless and hoping he’s not too late.
Damn. He was too late.
Still walking in my footsteps, John?
Somehow he forced his physical body to go along with his seeing self, joining the now familiar figure leaning against the window frame, peering thoughtfully through the windows in front of them, lit and clear like a stage.
“Not this time, please.”
You’ve never begged before, John. Why for him? He’s not good, and he’s not your friend.
“He could be both.”
John drew in a short breath, watching that man over there, the brightest person he ever met, the person most alive he met since he came back from the war, taking the wrong pill with a shaky hand and carrying it towards his mouth. Idiot.
He already made his choice, the Death observed with quiet satisfaction.
“Not this time,” John repeated stubbornly and aimed his gun.
It’s been a shot against all odds, aimed with half-dazed eyes, fooled by multiple light reflections from two windows, not to mention the distance.
Oh.
When he lowered his gun, when he felt his own heart beating again, he turned to the door and found them held open. The silver grey silhouette bowed its head ever so slightly.
After you, Doctor Watson.
***
Later that evening, the man who was about to become his best friend stood in front of him with a strange expression - John would have said there’s been almost concern.
“You allright? …. you’ve just killed a man.”
How could I ever explain, John thought to himself and decided for the truth.
“I’ve seen men dying before. Good men… friends of mine… thought I’d never sleep again.”
He shrugged, his mind fleeting briefly back to that insane murderer, to the look on his face when the bullet hit him.
“I’ll sleep fine tonight.”
And all happened within seconds, I've been walking down the street in a sunny winter afternoon, looked up to the sky covered with the most beautiful set of cirrus uncinus clouds I've ever seen (pity that it always foretells a change of weather), and I thought immediately that they look like angel's wings... and there was the story, all of a sudden, yelling at me write write write!
So I did.
This particular story refers to the ending on the unaired pilot, which differs hugely from the official version, much to my disappointment. I liked the pilot version so much better. It shows John's strength of character, actually letting him to have an upper hand on Sherlock, and Sherlock himself looks so... touchingly human in this scene.
Please, watch it, it's worthy.
First time when John encountered death he was only eight years old.
It had looked so innocently at first. His favourite uncle choking on a mouthful of wine during their Christmas Eve dinner. He even managed to half laugh through the fits of cough and spit out some words amongst the wine droplets about him being an utter idiot. It was only few second later when John noticed his hand, clutched convulsively to his chest, and face going suddenly purple. He jumped from his chair and made way for his father, already on his way to help.
It’s been like a strange sort of dream, flickering light of the candles blinding him, sounds of voices and shouts coming from a great distance. His father ordering his mother to call the ambulance, muttered words about another heart attack, too soon, I told him not to exert himself, I told him… his favourite aunt trembling and wide-eyed, spilling a useless glass of water all over their new dining room rug… He felt suddenly so cold, so cold that his heart almost refused to beat, and he clung to his mother’s arms and watched all the world turning dim…
It was then when he saw it.
Tall creature, thin and frail, woven of glimmering light, moved noiselessly through the shadowy room, pearly-white wings spreading to the ceiling like cirrus uncinus over a pale winter sky. John saw it and it felt like if it was the only real thing in the room, aside from the dying bulk of his uncle’s body.
John left his shadowy self sobbing in his mother’s arms and run to cross its way, small hands clenched in a childish desperation.
Step aside, little boy.
“Leave him alone!”
He already is alone. I’m taking him where he belongs.
“He belongs to Auntie and Nickie and Poppy! You can’t take him, he’s a good man!”
It’s not a question of goodness, John.
Silvery blue eyes burned in that unearthly face and that gaze has been enough to force John one step aside. The Death knelt by the dying man and lifted his visible shape of the ground, leaving only a shadow of his dead body on the grey floor.
“You’re so cruel! He could have lived!”
I do not take lives, John. It’s only the deaths I claim. Now be a good boy and hold that door open for me, would you?
The boy obeyed reluctantly, opening the door for the Death to pass out, leaving the shadow of the real door still in its frame.
“I won’t let you next time. I’ll chase you down and I’ll beat you,” he swore under his breath.
Till next time, John.
***
The second time he hasn’t even noticed the sudden chill, the greyness, the muffling of the world around him. He’s been too busy pressing his finger to his best mate’s artery, shouting orders, calling for his supportive unit. It’s the adrenaline daze, my eyes are blinded by the ever-present sand in the wind, he said to himself…
Hallo, John.
“No. Not you. Not now.”
The seeing John has taken two shattered steps back, watching his shadowy hands continuing in their desperate and futile attempts to prevent his mate’s blood drowning in the desert sand.
“Don’t take him. He’s my best friend.”
It’s not a question of friendship, John.
“Damn it, I’m still here! And I won’t let him go!”
I rather like you, John.
That’s why he never remembered being shot, at least what he told them when they asked later. He was only sure of one thing - days and weeks later, when he recovered from the wound in the shoulder only to be sent home due to his fucking psychosomatic limping leg - he still heard the soft laughter echoed in the Afghanistan desert.
***
He threw open the door to the front room in that unused building on the other side of Baker Street, breathless and hoping he’s not too late.
Damn. He was too late.
Still walking in my footsteps, John?
Somehow he forced his physical body to go along with his seeing self, joining the now familiar figure leaning against the window frame, peering thoughtfully through the windows in front of them, lit and clear like a stage.
“Not this time, please.”
You’ve never begged before, John. Why for him? He’s not good, and he’s not your friend.
“He could be both.”
John drew in a short breath, watching that man over there, the brightest person he ever met, the person most alive he met since he came back from the war, taking the wrong pill with a shaky hand and carrying it towards his mouth. Idiot.
He already made his choice, the Death observed with quiet satisfaction.
“Not this time,” John repeated stubbornly and aimed his gun.
It’s been a shot against all odds, aimed with half-dazed eyes, fooled by multiple light reflections from two windows, not to mention the distance.
Oh.
When he lowered his gun, when he felt his own heart beating again, he turned to the door and found them held open. The silver grey silhouette bowed its head ever so slightly.
After you, Doctor Watson.
***
Later that evening, the man who was about to become his best friend stood in front of him with a strange expression - John would have said there’s been almost concern.
“You allright? …. you’ve just killed a man.”
How could I ever explain, John thought to himself and decided for the truth.
“I’ve seen men dying before. Good men… friends of mine… thought I’d never sleep again.”
He shrugged, his mind fleeting briefly back to that insane murderer, to the look on his face when the bullet hit him.
“I’ll sleep fine tonight.”