part 3a through 3d
Rating: PG-13(ish)
Pairing(s): Implied established H/W
Disclaimer: I'm sorry, ACD. :'C
Summary: AU crossover with Marble Hornets // the Slenderman mythos.
Word Count: 2188
{choices}
This is where I stand.
Facts - I have recounted all the facts. Catalogued them, recited them like prayers, an appeal to reason rather than a higher power. Holmes would be proud. I am sickened by the way in which I count God a dead letter. The Devil is real, I have seen his handiwork, his art form. Works in blood and sinew and bone.
It holds an unhealthy fascination for me now. I am compelled by a desire beyond the mere pursuit of data and loose ends to return to A.'s rooms. Holmes' morning post was terse, it smelled of copper, bile and opium smoke and it contained exactly one sentence. “Do not leave Baker Street under any circumstance,” it said. I do not know if I will be able to comply.
Is it rational to comply, when operating on the agenda of a fact-gatherer? I cringe to think on the volume of subtleties that will be lost to the unyielding hand of time if I do not return soon. After the police inspect, the scene will be hopelessly compromised. I am comforted by the fact that this is not likely imminent, A. has few connections in London that will note his disappearance.
I worry for Holmes' sanity. It is not in his nature to be so negligent, however I do not know that he has not visited A.'s apartments himself. He discloses very little of substance to me in his letters, as of late. As fine an actor as he is in-person, his tactics of evasion in writing are utterly transparent.
The distance between us is a terrible thing. I cannot sleep at night in this bed without him by my side. My night-terrors have become unbearable, I need the touch of his fragile hands, his voice to call me home.
I dreamt of doors and halls filled with a grinding wash of noise. There was a thin trail of blood on the carpet and I stooped to touch it but it became a string, so I gathered it in my arms and wound it round my hands. Every step I took, the shadows moved and the room shifted with impossible geometry. I cannot explain it, but things were so incomprehensible and offensive to the senses that I tried to bury my face in my hands but my hands were wrapped in the string, which I realized was, in fact, branching capillaries and veins and arteries which pulsed sickly beneath my fingers. But I could not stop my gathering, my body moved unbidden and with each pull I heard a small, strangled scream. It was his voice and he begged me to stop, I was killing him.
I was killing him
I awoke drenched in sweat and fighting a bitter gorge at the back of my throat. I need to see his face. Things cannot go on this way, but I haven't the faintest idea of how to remedy the situation. My mind has become terribly narrow. I oscillate constantly between two channels of thought:
1) I will stay at Baker Street today. I will follow his orders and hope against reason that he will make his presence fully known to me, anticipating the course my mind has taken.
2) I will return to A.'s rented room and I will investigate. Not only will I obtain critical data but I will likely draw Holmes out of hiding. This is a necessary evil for both our good. He needs protection, from his own base habits and from the horror, the Slender Man - this I cannot provide through letters and care-packages.
My train departs at two o'clock, so I have three hours' time to decide.
{forward motion}
I tried to read the paper, empty my mind and fill it with simple truths and easy normal happenings. The newsprint ran into meaningless dark patches beneath my gaze and I gave up as I realized that I had scanned the same sentence for a full minute without knowing what it said. Smoking a cigarette, I reread Holmes' note. This is so unlike him. There is something I am missing here.
I cannot stand this inaction.
It was a quarter after one when I left for the station. A pang of guilt hit me as I crossed the threshold separating 221B from the rest of London but it quickly dissipated, drawn away by the pressing crowd. It was pissing down rain and everything was shrouded in the dank, musty odour of wet wool and damp hair. I felt ill from breathing in such oppressive air and decided to hasten my arrival at the leaving platform. Conditions were most unhelpful to this end. The herds of people on the streets moved sluggishly, my anxiety was mounting and I tried to thread my way though them as best I could.
My heart-rate was growing quicker, my breathing patterns sloppy. Noises were too loud, too sudden, too inextricably jumbled. There was a hot breathing at my neck, a cold sweat crawling down my spine. I needed a borrowed moment of quiet. I dodged into the first pub I saw and asked where the water closet was. The barman's words came out with a strange cadence and far too slow.
The room was cramped, unsanitary and hardly preferable arrangements, but I locked myself in and leaned against the door. Two shaking fingers found the pulse point at my Carotid artery. I cupped my pocketwatch in my opposite hand, counted the beats, lost track, began again. The exact number hardly mattered, I decided. It was thoroughly evident, even without an exact count, that my heart-rate was elevated in an unhealthy manner. Panic attack. It was scarcely useful to self-diagnose, however, when there was so little I could do to remedy the situation.
Regulate breathing, clear the mind
I counted my breaths, kept them slow and steady. There was a pounding on the door - “Are you alright in there, mate?” I bloody well wasn't alright, I was falling to pieces. I had to rally, I would not become a weak link. I checked my reflection briefly, I hardly resembled myself. I had never seen my skin so pale, so waxen, never seen my pupils so blown. I ran the taps as an answer to the patron's query (I did not trust my voice) and splashed some cool water on my face. I walked out without another word. I could not meet their eyes.
It was just a block to the station, I could do that. I could grip my cane, straighten my back and just keep breathing. This was nothing, this was -
the sensation of phantom hands gripping at me tearing at me
- nothing at all and I could bear it to the end.
Steps seemed to stretch for miles, yet I could see the vague outline of the stationhouse cresting on the horizon. So much of this battle was won.
{static}
On the train there are too many sounds. It's suffocating, I can't block them out it seems they're in my head. I've tried. There is a rush, like wind and tides and flames and a dull, soul-deep roar that I can feel in my chest. Something grinding like stones and metal. Forceful compression. Sounds like war. Bullets thundering through the barrel of a gun. Shattering glass, the scream of steel on cobblestone. Animal cries from the throats of men, unsuited, ill-used. And they won't untangle themselves. I cannot pick them apart, throw them away one-by-one.
There's a pressure building in my skull. My eyes, oh God in heaven, the pressure behind my eyes.
{doors & halls}
The carriage ride to the rented room passes oddly, I recall only flickers. Perhaps I took record of it, but upon review of my notes, it is absent. This worries me.
It takes me several moments to gain my bearings and locate the complex where A.'s room was located. My leg has begun to ache fiercely from the rain and all of the walking, so this slows my journey a considerable amount. One of the worst possible things, given the circumstances. I wish that I could stop my mind because right now, I need to act. This isn't the brightest of things to do, nor is it likely the safest, but it is the course of action I am committed to at this point.
When I have reached that filthy building, mouldering in ill-repair, I begin to sense a singular presence. I will not endeavor to explain the means by which I became aware of such a presence for fear of sounding most superstitious. I could not summon my mettle to enter and instead paced outside of the building, hoping to shake the sickly feelings that had me so tightly in their grasp.
These tactics failed, as is to be expected, so I proceeded to the door. As soon as I had lit my fingers upon the doorknob, an unearthly blast of sound and darkness and cold hit me like a physical blow. I staggered backwards, reeling. And, good God, to my eternal shame, I fled. I ran until the pain seeped back into my leg and, in realizing that the all-permeating cold was leaving me, I ran more. I reached a main street filled with people, but the noise was bleeding in around the edges of my thoughts.
I wound my way wildly through the crowd, until I came into contact with something very solid. It was almost as if he had been trying to place himself in my path. The man gripped my shoulder for half an instant before tugging his cap down low over his eyes and shoving me away, back into the throng. I was dazed for a moment, but recalled quickly the need to move and so I thought nothing more of the incident until I had boarded the train back home.
It came to my attention that, likely during my short encounter with the man on the street, a rudely crumpled piece of paper had found its way into the pocket of my coat. I flattened it onto my lap and fought to read the smudged and quickly jotted words, which were as follows:
Watson. I say this only for your own preservation. Do not turn around. Do not glance over your shoulder. Go directly home. Take the shortest route, no matter how mean. Do not stop moving until you are within the apartment.
This is of paramount importance. Betray no fear.
Stay safe
- Holmes
I felt simultaneously exposed and isolated. I felt like a perfect target.
Betray no fear
First and most important signifier of fear, breathing pattern. Even if one's heart is racing, no one else need know because, in most cases, without aid the human heartbeat is undetectable to the ear. Several slow, deep breaths and I was falling into a familiar rhythm once again, even if I felt like a man saved from drowning attempting to draw air.
I remembered Holmes' words, almost precisely, in a very different context.
“Do not turn around,” he'd commanded and placed a kiss on my shoulder-blade, “Do not throw looks over your shoulder” And he'd let his voice and too-light touches torture me exquisitely, until I could bear no more. My arms outstretched, trembling. Palms against the wall. It was a game, then, a way of taking and giving power.
It shamed me to recall this now, so odd how the mind works under duress. This was not a game.
No, this was not a game at all.
I trembled as I disembarked the coach at the arriving platform. I narrowed my gaze to a small, straight path in front of me, willing my legs to move.
Regulate breathing
I was running, drawing odd glances from passersby. My bad leg was stiff, the cuffs of my trousers soaking wet. A dark chill was setting into my marrow.
Teeth against the crest of my shoulders
The very worst part of town, leering whores and drunken vagrants in the streets like human refuse. Why was I here? The shortest route. Keeping decent pace, eyes fixed ahead.
“Do not turn around”
It was there, I swear to God and under blood-oath. It was there behind me, upon me. My ears were ringing with the noise. I was choking, I was drowning. Baker Street was within sight, I could not fail now.
I shut the door behind myself with a touch more force than necessary and climbed the stairs without pause. I would pay for this mindlessness of my injuries tomorrow. I locked the door to our study behind me and sank into the armchair by the fire. My tea was cold, but I much needed something stiffer, so I poured myself a double measure of brandy hoping it would warm me and dull the growing pain in my leg.
I happened to glance upon the door, when I realized with an awful thrill that there were two sets of wet shoe-prints on the hardwood floor entering this room.
← →
Pairing(s): Implied established H/W
Disclaimer: I'm sorry, ACD. :'C
Summary: AU crossover with Marble Hornets // the Slenderman mythos.
Word Count: 2188
{choices}
This is where I stand.
Facts - I have recounted all the facts. Catalogued them, recited them like prayers, an appeal to reason rather than a higher power. Holmes would be proud. I am sickened by the way in which I count God a dead letter. The Devil is real, I have seen his handiwork, his art form. Works in blood and sinew and bone.
It holds an unhealthy fascination for me now. I am compelled by a desire beyond the mere pursuit of data and loose ends to return to A.'s rooms. Holmes' morning post was terse, it smelled of copper, bile and opium smoke and it contained exactly one sentence. “Do not leave Baker Street under any circumstance,” it said. I do not know if I will be able to comply.
Is it rational to comply, when operating on the agenda of a fact-gatherer? I cringe to think on the volume of subtleties that will be lost to the unyielding hand of time if I do not return soon. After the police inspect, the scene will be hopelessly compromised. I am comforted by the fact that this is not likely imminent, A. has few connections in London that will note his disappearance.
I worry for Holmes' sanity. It is not in his nature to be so negligent, however I do not know that he has not visited A.'s apartments himself. He discloses very little of substance to me in his letters, as of late. As fine an actor as he is in-person, his tactics of evasion in writing are utterly transparent.
The distance between us is a terrible thing. I cannot sleep at night in this bed without him by my side. My night-terrors have become unbearable, I need the touch of his fragile hands, his voice to call me home.
I dreamt of doors and halls filled with a grinding wash of noise. There was a thin trail of blood on the carpet and I stooped to touch it but it became a string, so I gathered it in my arms and wound it round my hands. Every step I took, the shadows moved and the room shifted with impossible geometry. I cannot explain it, but things were so incomprehensible and offensive to the senses that I tried to bury my face in my hands but my hands were wrapped in the string, which I realized was, in fact, branching capillaries and veins and arteries which pulsed sickly beneath my fingers. But I could not stop my gathering, my body moved unbidden and with each pull I heard a small, strangled scream. It was his voice and he begged me to stop, I was killing him.
I was killing him
I awoke drenched in sweat and fighting a bitter gorge at the back of my throat. I need to see his face. Things cannot go on this way, but I haven't the faintest idea of how to remedy the situation. My mind has become terribly narrow. I oscillate constantly between two channels of thought:
1) I will stay at Baker Street today. I will follow his orders and hope against reason that he will make his presence fully known to me, anticipating the course my mind has taken.
2) I will return to A.'s rented room and I will investigate. Not only will I obtain critical data but I will likely draw Holmes out of hiding. This is a necessary evil for both our good. He needs protection, from his own base habits and from the horror, the Slender Man - this I cannot provide through letters and care-packages.
My train departs at two o'clock, so I have three hours' time to decide.
{forward motion}
I tried to read the paper, empty my mind and fill it with simple truths and easy normal happenings. The newsprint ran into meaningless dark patches beneath my gaze and I gave up as I realized that I had scanned the same sentence for a full minute without knowing what it said. Smoking a cigarette, I reread Holmes' note. This is so unlike him. There is something I am missing here.
I cannot stand this inaction.
It was a quarter after one when I left for the station. A pang of guilt hit me as I crossed the threshold separating 221B from the rest of London but it quickly dissipated, drawn away by the pressing crowd. It was pissing down rain and everything was shrouded in the dank, musty odour of wet wool and damp hair. I felt ill from breathing in such oppressive air and decided to hasten my arrival at the leaving platform. Conditions were most unhelpful to this end. The herds of people on the streets moved sluggishly, my anxiety was mounting and I tried to thread my way though them as best I could.
My heart-rate was growing quicker, my breathing patterns sloppy. Noises were too loud, too sudden, too inextricably jumbled. There was a hot breathing at my neck, a cold sweat crawling down my spine. I needed a borrowed moment of quiet. I dodged into the first pub I saw and asked where the water closet was. The barman's words came out with a strange cadence and far too slow.
The room was cramped, unsanitary and hardly preferable arrangements, but I locked myself in and leaned against the door. Two shaking fingers found the pulse point at my Carotid artery. I cupped my pocketwatch in my opposite hand, counted the beats, lost track, began again. The exact number hardly mattered, I decided. It was thoroughly evident, even without an exact count, that my heart-rate was elevated in an unhealthy manner. Panic attack. It was scarcely useful to self-diagnose, however, when there was so little I could do to remedy the situation.
Regulate breathing, clear the mind
I counted my breaths, kept them slow and steady. There was a pounding on the door - “Are you alright in there, mate?” I bloody well wasn't alright, I was falling to pieces. I had to rally, I would not become a weak link. I checked my reflection briefly, I hardly resembled myself. I had never seen my skin so pale, so waxen, never seen my pupils so blown. I ran the taps as an answer to the patron's query (I did not trust my voice) and splashed some cool water on my face. I walked out without another word. I could not meet their eyes.
It was just a block to the station, I could do that. I could grip my cane, straighten my back and just keep breathing. This was nothing, this was -
the sensation of phantom hands gripping at me tearing at me
- nothing at all and I could bear it to the end.
Steps seemed to stretch for miles, yet I could see the vague outline of the stationhouse cresting on the horizon. So much of this battle was won.
{static}
On the train there are too many sounds. It's suffocating, I can't block them out it seems they're in my head. I've tried. There is a rush, like wind and tides and flames and a dull, soul-deep roar that I can feel in my chest. Something grinding like stones and metal. Forceful compression. Sounds like war. Bullets thundering through the barrel of a gun. Shattering glass, the scream of steel on cobblestone. Animal cries from the throats of men, unsuited, ill-used. And they won't untangle themselves. I cannot pick them apart, throw them away one-by-one.
There's a pressure building in my skull. My eyes, oh God in heaven, the pressure behind my eyes.
{doors & halls}
The carriage ride to the rented room passes oddly, I recall only flickers. Perhaps I took record of it, but upon review of my notes, it is absent. This worries me.
It takes me several moments to gain my bearings and locate the complex where A.'s room was located. My leg has begun to ache fiercely from the rain and all of the walking, so this slows my journey a considerable amount. One of the worst possible things, given the circumstances. I wish that I could stop my mind because right now, I need to act. This isn't the brightest of things to do, nor is it likely the safest, but it is the course of action I am committed to at this point.
When I have reached that filthy building, mouldering in ill-repair, I begin to sense a singular presence. I will not endeavor to explain the means by which I became aware of such a presence for fear of sounding most superstitious. I could not summon my mettle to enter and instead paced outside of the building, hoping to shake the sickly feelings that had me so tightly in their grasp.
These tactics failed, as is to be expected, so I proceeded to the door. As soon as I had lit my fingers upon the doorknob, an unearthly blast of sound and darkness and cold hit me like a physical blow. I staggered backwards, reeling. And, good God, to my eternal shame, I fled. I ran until the pain seeped back into my leg and, in realizing that the all-permeating cold was leaving me, I ran more. I reached a main street filled with people, but the noise was bleeding in around the edges of my thoughts.
I wound my way wildly through the crowd, until I came into contact with something very solid. It was almost as if he had been trying to place himself in my path. The man gripped my shoulder for half an instant before tugging his cap down low over his eyes and shoving me away, back into the throng. I was dazed for a moment, but recalled quickly the need to move and so I thought nothing more of the incident until I had boarded the train back home.
It came to my attention that, likely during my short encounter with the man on the street, a rudely crumpled piece of paper had found its way into the pocket of my coat. I flattened it onto my lap and fought to read the smudged and quickly jotted words, which were as follows:
Watson. I say this only for your own preservation. Do not turn around. Do not glance over your shoulder. Go directly home. Take the shortest route, no matter how mean. Do not stop moving until you are within the apartment.
This is of paramount importance. Betray no fear.
Stay safe
- Holmes
I felt simultaneously exposed and isolated. I felt like a perfect target.
Betray no fear
First and most important signifier of fear, breathing pattern. Even if one's heart is racing, no one else need know because, in most cases, without aid the human heartbeat is undetectable to the ear. Several slow, deep breaths and I was falling into a familiar rhythm once again, even if I felt like a man saved from drowning attempting to draw air.
I remembered Holmes' words, almost precisely, in a very different context.
“Do not turn around,” he'd commanded and placed a kiss on my shoulder-blade, “Do not throw looks over your shoulder” And he'd let his voice and too-light touches torture me exquisitely, until I could bear no more. My arms outstretched, trembling. Palms against the wall. It was a game, then, a way of taking and giving power.
It shamed me to recall this now, so odd how the mind works under duress. This was not a game.
No, this was not a game at all.
I trembled as I disembarked the coach at the arriving platform. I narrowed my gaze to a small, straight path in front of me, willing my legs to move.
Regulate breathing
I was running, drawing odd glances from passersby. My bad leg was stiff, the cuffs of my trousers soaking wet. A dark chill was setting into my marrow.
Teeth against the crest of my shoulders
The very worst part of town, leering whores and drunken vagrants in the streets like human refuse. Why was I here? The shortest route. Keeping decent pace, eyes fixed ahead.
“Do not turn around”
It was there, I swear to God and under blood-oath. It was there behind me, upon me. My ears were ringing with the noise. I was choking, I was drowning. Baker Street was within sight, I could not fail now.
I shut the door behind myself with a touch more force than necessary and climbed the stairs without pause. I would pay for this mindlessness of my injuries tomorrow. I locked the door to our study behind me and sank into the armchair by the fire. My tea was cold, but I much needed something stiffer, so I poured myself a double measure of brandy hoping it would warm me and dull the growing pain in my leg.
I happened to glance upon the door, when I realized with an awful thrill that there were two sets of wet shoe-prints on the hardwood floor entering this room.
← →