Sherlock (BBC) Fanfiction: Starts Off Like This
Starts Off Like This.
Summary: It starts off like this. That’s not what you want to know though. You want to know how it ends.
Disclaimer: Doyle owns the original concept and thanks to the BBC for making it a future!AU.
A/N: I hope this makes some sense. If not, I hope it just screws with you, a little.
Also, the character is never specified because I want you to fill the gaps and make your own impression over who this character is.
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It starts off like this.
He’s in a room. A white walled room.
The only colour comes from the animal laid out before him. The red is startling, and he can’t help but touch it.
Wet. Cold. Slippery between his fingers.
He is sure the animal is dead, and then it moves. It is screaming.
Now he is screaming too, shock bleeding into every part of him.
That’s when he wakes up.
-
It starts off like this.
He’s in a room. A white walled room. It’s small and claustrophobia-inducing. Cold; very, bone-chillingly cold. He can’t feel his fingers or toes.
There’s a pause. He looks down at his fingers and realises he can’t move them.
Looks up and sees the walls aren’t white; it’s just his vision being blocked by letters. So many words and sentences and descriptions and observations-
He’s drowning in them. He can’t breathe. The air is ice stuck in his throat and his fingers still don’t move.
There’s a choking noise coming from him-it’s terrifying-and he can’t scream.
That’s when he wakes up.
-
It starts off like this.
He’s in a room. A white walled room. It is small and sparsely furnished. Even the furniture is white metal, shiny in the fluorescent lighting. Blinking, he sits up. He’s in a bed.
The cloth feels scratchy, and he strokes the fabric, mesmerised.
A sharp buzz sounds. It’s the lighting. Looking up, he sees the light going brighter and brighter and brighter-
So much light everything is bleached white and he has to shut his eyes from the glare. But the light is so piercing it penetrates his eyelids and everything burns.
He is yelling, arms reaching for something, anything, to shut off the light.
Something slams into his arm, heavy and cold. The light shuts off and pain flourishes.
That’s when he wakes up.
-
It starts off like this.
He’s in a room. A white walled room. It is very small and he can stand and touch all the walls without taking a step.
Spinning on his heel, he takes a check of what surrounds him. Four walls, a floor and a ceiling. There are no windows or doors. Panic, strangely enough, doesn’t set in.
Taking a deep breath, he looks at the walls, tries to see if there’s something that can help.
All he notices is that the wallpaper is peeling. It’s rather awful, to be honest. It is peeling and the edges are ragged and yellowed like aged parchment.
Without a second thought, he pulls at one of the edges.
A scream emits from the wall, following the pace of the rip. He stops ripping, if only because he needs both hands to cover his ears from the sounds of the screaming. Even though he stopped, the noise doesn’t and it is glass-shatteringly loud.
The wallpaper is in a heap on the floor and where the wall once was is now only darkness.
Empty darkness that is more soul-sucking than the screaming.
That’s when he wakes up.
-
It starts off like this.
He is in pain. It smells like chlorine. There is a weight crushing him, and his skin feels like it is on fire.
There is something important he’s forgetting. He tries to move, but can’t. Water is lapping at his neck. A sniper rifle lies discarded near his head.
He needs help.
When he starts to yell, he is met with only silence.
That’s when he wakes up.
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It starts off like this.
He’s in a room.
He’s not alone.
There is a person standing there, watching him. They are dressed in white and their skin is nearly translucent, purple veins visible beneath. Their hair is such a pale blond it could be mistaken for white.
Then they smile. They have no teeth.
He starts, and jumps back, hitting something. Turning around, he sees it’s a copy of the other white figure. The copy tilts their head and he notices what’s truly odd about them.
They have no pupils. Their eyes are just white.
A bubble of noise comes from them, and he is terrified. The noise is akin to the sound of laughing children.
Here, it is so, so wrong. He wonders whether he is dead.
Part of him wishes he were.
That’s when he wakes up.
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It starts off like this.
He’s in a room. It is warm. The walls are dark, wood panelling, and the air smells like pipe smoke.
Relief trickles through him. This is familiar. Something safe to latch onto in the dark. That’s what strange though. It’s dark.
His eyes fall on a heavy black curtain, so long it piles up on the floor, no shaft of sunlight able to move past it. The sight is so peculiar, he wonders where enough light is coming from that he can see at all.
As he stands, it is only then he realises he was sitting to begin with. Looking back, whatever he was sitting on has disappeared. Unsettled, he walks to the curtain, and ever the curious fool, pulls it back.
The ripping motion is familiar, but before he can remember why, he’s thrown back the curtains to reveal a window. It is boarded up, not a crack of light visible through the planks of wood nailed across the window.
Suddenly, the thought strikes him that the room is like a barricade.
He likes that thought.
Until something starts rapping on the door he did not notice and then he is afraid.
The door opens and his heart stops.
That’s when he wakes up.
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It starts off like this.
He is in a room, pacing. There are bars on the door, on the window. A familiar craving is tickling his throat but he pushes the feeling away.
A caged feeling sets down on his shoulders. He does not like this. Terror wasn’t in his veins. Instead, a cold anger flooded his soul.
Instinctively, he knew two things.
The caged feeling would not last. Freedom dances on the edges of his vision.
Secondly, people will die for this injustice. If they don’t let him go, people are going to die.
Suddenly, the world around him explodes. His last thought is here comes freedom.
That’s when he wakes up.
-
It starts off like this.
He is in a room. It is clean and orderly and he has the vaguest notion it’s there because he wants it to be there. It stinks of cleaning fluid; he hates that smell because it reminds him of hospitals.
People surge around him, shiny and oddly faceless all at once. Their eyes glow, almost, but there is too much light to really see.
His arms feel heavy and immobile. His lips feel sewn together. He probes his lips with his tongue, and it tastes of blood. For a moment, he panics that they really are sewn together, because he cannot move them.
Then he promptly forgets that and fixates on the scalpel ready to drive into his abdomen.
That’s when he wakes up.
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It starts off like this.
He is in a room. Voices are floating up around him. They sound worried, vicious little voices nipping at his mind. He does not stir, does not want to incite the wrath of the voices.
Sound disappears. He opens his eyes. Sees the room around him, takes in the details. It is an off-white colour, the curtains that surround him. He wants to see the walls, but decides to leave well enough alone. Looking down, he sees he is lying in a bed. The blanket is scratchy to the touch.
There are wires connected to his arm and nose. This, somehow, feels normal, so he leaves them be.
A part of him wants to get up wander. He is the curious child, after all.
Except then something beside him makes a mechanical hissing noise.
That’s when he wakes up.
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It starts off like this.
He is in a flat. Not a room, a flat. He does not know how he got there. The air smells of gunpowder and something sterile. There is a yellow smile painted on the wall, peppered with bullet holes.
For a moment, he just stands there and basks in the feeling of the flat. He’s not quite sure why he does it, but it feels good. A feeling of accomplishment flows through him.
Not enough though, definitely not enough. He walks over to the mantelpiece, grabs the skull-which does not unsettle him-and throws it to the ground. It breaks; cracking and fragmenting. His foot crushes the rest.
Before he blinks, the flat around him is cast into disarray. His hands are dotted in scratches. The thought passes through his mind that he caused the destruction.
It pleases him.
That’s when he wakes up.
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It starts off like this.
He is standing in mid-air. That throws him off for a moment. He doesn’t even bother to fight the impulse to look down.
His psychiatrist always said his curiosity would kill him. Then again, his curiosity about how long it would take to kill someone from asphyxiation killed them.
For a moment he has to hold his breath before vertigo overthrows his senses. It is stunningly high up wherever he is. There is the sensation of ground beneath him, but all he sees is air.
But he wants to move forward, so he takes a step. Wind blows through his hair.
And then he is falling.
That’s when he wakes up.
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It ends like this.
He is outside. A waterfall is behind him. The rush of water is loud; deafening to the point it nearly gives him a migraine.
He looks down. It’s dizzying, the power of the water, and the force of gravity.
A small smile creeps onto his lips. Something in him tells him to jump.
Instead, he is pushed. For a moment, he fights the pressure, fights everything. But then he lets go.
And then he is falling.
He does not wake up this time.
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A/N: Does this even make sense? I don’t know anymore.
In my mind, I wrote this so it could be vaguely applicable to both Moriarty and Sherlock. Who did you see?