Fic: Sherlock Holmes
Title: Any Man
Author: Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG-13 (because of horror, and blood, and death, and sickies, and my general lack of coherent description, and *continues on*)
Characters: Watson, Holmes, Lestrade
Warnings: Well, if you are an utter coward like I tend to be, I am going to warn you for the horror aspect. Otherwise, blood, exhaustion, mentions of the conclusion to "The Final Problem", utter lack of true medical knowledge (thank you, wikipedia, for your online awesome) and betaing. If that hasn't driven you away, I don't think anything else will.
Words: 1,700
Author's Note: Written for capt_facepalm who requested an exhaustion fic, and not just exhaustion, but full-blown sleep deprivation to the point of psychosis. And not LOL psychosis but "Oh $h!t" psychosis which makes you feel rather sick inside and sends you into fits of worry for your hallucinating, whacked-out friend. Uh, so, here you go. Happy Halloween?
Never before had he wished that he had Holmes’s insight more than he did right now, his fingers scrabbling about the rough shores of the river, his frantic search not inhibited by his own trembling or the uneven ground that he crawled upon. Had he been able to see as Holmes saw, or think as Holmes thought, he might’ve looked straight through the note and into the reality that Moriarty was attempting to claim Holmes’s life and that he, as a friend, needed to stay closer than ever. Instead of traversing back to the non-existent woman, he may have journeyed onward and protected Holmes from whatever trap Moriarty set for him. Still untouchable, but upon his mind like pain upon injury, the failure waited, reminding him that he’d known Holmes dwelled in a precarious place and, yet, like Peter with Christ, walked away. Perhaps a sin not as great, but a sin all the same, one he dared not embrace until he found the body upon the rocks and made certain that no life remained.
He ached physically as his search continued in a manner almost as painful as his raw nerves. The descent down must’ve brought upon the extreme fatigue-he noted his rapid and labored breath, his aching muscles and lack of energy with little interest-and as he gazed upon the seemingly never-ending cliff, it did not surprise him. For the briefest moment, he thought it impossible, that there was no way he could’ve made it down here to the banks of the river from that great of a height but he soon dismissed that as inconsequential. What mattered now was Holmes, finding him, alive, oh God, alive; or simply finding him for the proof that he was-he could not bear the thought of dead. No, not until he pressed his fingers against the man’s throat himself, put his face close to feel for a breath; only if he found no evidence, not the slightest hint of pulse, would he believe the great detective met his end at that place.
He tried to gain his feet for it would be faster to travel at a walk than a crawl but waves of dizziness crossed him every time he exceeded a crouch. Falling down would only prolong his journey and he could injure himself amongst the rocks-or were they rocks at all? He nearly thought them common flotsam for a second-especially in the dark. In the distance, a shout arose, and fear encouraged him to move faster, to keep looking, to hunt. Without knowledge of how long it had been since Holmes fell, he could not estimate how far the river had swept him. It could be miles and miles, and if Holmes survived-no, he did survive, he had to survive-then Holmes would need help. Such a fall would no doubt cause great injury, not to mention hypothermia from the prolonged period in the water. He would need to keep his strength, to prepare for the worst, to move away from the shoreline a bit because the hem of his coat had dampened and his trousers were soaked from ankle to knee.
Hands clasped his shoulders, dragging him up towards the steep walls surrounding him, the sunlight reflecting in square patches, the rock’s texture decidedly wooden; maybe even actual walls, made of planks and nails and-no. He struggled, flung his arm up, striking whoever had foolishly grabbed him, and staggered away. The voice calling after him sounded familiar, almost sounded as though it spoke English, but he refused to listen. Only two kinds of men would come down here, one group trying to undo him as they’d tried to undo his friend and another that would steal his precious moments away in an attempt to convince him that Holmes had died. Another hand, another strike, and he fell into the water, his feet giving under him, and nothing there to hold him up.
The water was surprisingly dirty considering how beautifully clear it looked from above. He felt bits of debris touching his face as he struggled to get his head above it. It was not deep, did not have a fast current as he might’ve predicted, and, yet, his hands could not gain purchase and he kept going under, again and again, and… Someone grasped him under the arms and sat him up, trembling, the water sluggishly pulling at his waist and calves. The day looked like night and night like day and the river far more like the Thames but he could not let it take him from his task.
“Watson,” desperation in that voice. He listened despite himself because it sounded so like Holmes’s voice. “Watson, look at me.”
He turned and choked back a cry of horror. Indeed, Holmes squatting behind him, water on his clothes, his face pocked with rot and pale with the absence of circulation. White lips and glossy eyes adorned the once known features that were now bedraggled by death and the river. The ghost tilted its head and reached for him as Hamlet to his son did, and he felt his heart speed up in his chest. Too late, his mind cried, far too late; already his friend lay in the dirt, dead and gone, because of his lack of insight. Cowering, he crawled further into the water, his hand catching some sharp rock and tearing, his cry swallowed up by his own rapid gasps.
“Watson?” the ghost called again. “Watson, what do you see?”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “So sorry. Please, please forgive me.”
The ghost moved far faster than he, not bound by the laws of reality, or by his growing exhaustion. It put clammy fingers on his shoulders, put its awful face so close that he could nearly smell the decay. “Forgive what, my friend? Watson, you must tell me what you’re seeing.”
“I should have stayed,” he whispered. “I should’ve stayed but I did not. Please, please forgive me, Holmes. If I’d not been fooled-”
“Holmes!” Perhaps the devil himself had ascended to take him, he reasoned, for surely his friend had come forth for his judgment. “Holmes, either get him under control or I will need to call someone from Bedlam.”
It turned its face from him, towards the shadows where the red eyes glowed and the steam poured forth from the pits. “He has not lost his mind, Lestrade, merely his reason. I should have seen this coming.” And, in a tone too gentle, “Watson, you have never failed me. As I would tell anyone who asks, I have never met a man less selfish. Now, look at me.”
He did, looked upon death and watched it changed; around him, the rocks turned to houses, the light to darkness, the spots of sunshine to lamps and candles; under his hand, rocks and dirt became stones, debris and soot; but, most importantly, in front of him Holmes’s cheeks warmed, his skin repaired and his eyes, the worst of it all, turned a familiar grey. His heart continued its desperate staccato but the pain in his throat, that kept him from words, dissolved.
“Holmes?” he whispered. “I… I thought us somewhere…”
“I know what you thought,” Holmes assured him, protecting him from it. “I know.”
Great weariness pulled at him, far greater than any he could recall suffering from; he dropped his head forward on Holmes’s shoulder. “I… I could not bear it… if it were true.”
“You could,” Holmes murmured, unusually gentle. A hand rested on the back of his head. “You did, even.”
“But I could not do it alone,” he clarified, remembering Mary’s comfort until her own death and wondering how he’d forgotten that horrid passing all together. Again, her hand slipped from his fingers, the light faded from her eyes. He started to see that graveyard with her casket lowered into the ground, the rain dripping down the wood and the headstone and-
“Lestrade, help me with him,” Holmes called. Two sets of hands guided him upwards even as he staggered drunkenly. His hand throbbed and he noticed the deepness of the injury for the first time. Dark droplets of blood swirled from it, down his fingers, then up, up his wrist, to his elbow, towards his shoulder to strangle him. He yelled, jerking away from the pair of supporters but unable to escape it as it tried to overcome him.
“No, Watson!” Holmes, again, and the river, once more. Alive, he knew it. Hands on his face. “No.”
“Holmes, this has gone far enough,” the second voice said. “He’s lost his senses. After the past few weeks, any man would.”
“He is not any man,” Holmes snapped. “You’ve not lost your mind, have you, Watson?”
His tongue felt thick, his mouth dry. “N-no… I… I do not think so.”
“Good,” Holmes approved. “Now, tell the inspector what the symptoms of sleep deprivation are.”
He muddled through his brain, the carefully cultivated lists hard to acquire. Only years of work and recollection helped him, and his faith in the man before him, “H-hallucinations, dry mouth, trembling hands,” Holmes took his one arm and he watched as his fingers shook, “dizziness, aching, nausea, psychosis…” His eyelids dipped down but then clawed back up as one of Holmes’s hands left him.
“He hasn’t slept for four days. And I think, Inspector,” Holmes nearly spat the last word, “that you could hardly find a better fit for that description. Now, help me or find someone who will.” Holmes, with strength that did not fit those thin arms, pulled him upward. “Steady, my dear fellow, steady. Home to a warm bed and a solid rest.”
Rest sounded beautiful and enigmatic, rather like something of legend; it was a mythical creature, splendid, but shy, and dancing just beyond him so he could almost see it but could not take it. He vaguely recalled it, as though, once, he had been allowed it in normal portions, but it felt so far away, or just close enough, just across the river. All he had to do was step out and walk to it and…
“Watson.”
And an anchor took hold of him, keeping him on the shore.
Author: Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG-13 (because of horror, and blood, and death, and sickies, and my general lack of coherent description, and *continues on*)
Characters: Watson, Holmes, Lestrade
Warnings: Well, if you are an utter coward like I tend to be, I am going to warn you for the horror aspect. Otherwise, blood, exhaustion, mentions of the conclusion to "The Final Problem", utter lack of true medical knowledge (thank you, wikipedia, for your online awesome) and betaing. If that hasn't driven you away, I don't think anything else will.
Words: 1,700
Author's Note: Written for capt_facepalm who requested an exhaustion fic, and not just exhaustion, but full-blown sleep deprivation to the point of psychosis. And not LOL psychosis but "Oh $h!t" psychosis which makes you feel rather sick inside and sends you into fits of worry for your hallucinating, whacked-out friend. Uh, so, here you go. Happy Halloween?
Never before had he wished that he had Holmes’s insight more than he did right now, his fingers scrabbling about the rough shores of the river, his frantic search not inhibited by his own trembling or the uneven ground that he crawled upon. Had he been able to see as Holmes saw, or think as Holmes thought, he might’ve looked straight through the note and into the reality that Moriarty was attempting to claim Holmes’s life and that he, as a friend, needed to stay closer than ever. Instead of traversing back to the non-existent woman, he may have journeyed onward and protected Holmes from whatever trap Moriarty set for him. Still untouchable, but upon his mind like pain upon injury, the failure waited, reminding him that he’d known Holmes dwelled in a precarious place and, yet, like Peter with Christ, walked away. Perhaps a sin not as great, but a sin all the same, one he dared not embrace until he found the body upon the rocks and made certain that no life remained.
He ached physically as his search continued in a manner almost as painful as his raw nerves. The descent down must’ve brought upon the extreme fatigue-he noted his rapid and labored breath, his aching muscles and lack of energy with little interest-and as he gazed upon the seemingly never-ending cliff, it did not surprise him. For the briefest moment, he thought it impossible, that there was no way he could’ve made it down here to the banks of the river from that great of a height but he soon dismissed that as inconsequential. What mattered now was Holmes, finding him, alive, oh God, alive; or simply finding him for the proof that he was-he could not bear the thought of dead. No, not until he pressed his fingers against the man’s throat himself, put his face close to feel for a breath; only if he found no evidence, not the slightest hint of pulse, would he believe the great detective met his end at that place.
He tried to gain his feet for it would be faster to travel at a walk than a crawl but waves of dizziness crossed him every time he exceeded a crouch. Falling down would only prolong his journey and he could injure himself amongst the rocks-or were they rocks at all? He nearly thought them common flotsam for a second-especially in the dark. In the distance, a shout arose, and fear encouraged him to move faster, to keep looking, to hunt. Without knowledge of how long it had been since Holmes fell, he could not estimate how far the river had swept him. It could be miles and miles, and if Holmes survived-no, he did survive, he had to survive-then Holmes would need help. Such a fall would no doubt cause great injury, not to mention hypothermia from the prolonged period in the water. He would need to keep his strength, to prepare for the worst, to move away from the shoreline a bit because the hem of his coat had dampened and his trousers were soaked from ankle to knee.
Hands clasped his shoulders, dragging him up towards the steep walls surrounding him, the sunlight reflecting in square patches, the rock’s texture decidedly wooden; maybe even actual walls, made of planks and nails and-no. He struggled, flung his arm up, striking whoever had foolishly grabbed him, and staggered away. The voice calling after him sounded familiar, almost sounded as though it spoke English, but he refused to listen. Only two kinds of men would come down here, one group trying to undo him as they’d tried to undo his friend and another that would steal his precious moments away in an attempt to convince him that Holmes had died. Another hand, another strike, and he fell into the water, his feet giving under him, and nothing there to hold him up.
The water was surprisingly dirty considering how beautifully clear it looked from above. He felt bits of debris touching his face as he struggled to get his head above it. It was not deep, did not have a fast current as he might’ve predicted, and, yet, his hands could not gain purchase and he kept going under, again and again, and… Someone grasped him under the arms and sat him up, trembling, the water sluggishly pulling at his waist and calves. The day looked like night and night like day and the river far more like the Thames but he could not let it take him from his task.
“Watson,” desperation in that voice. He listened despite himself because it sounded so like Holmes’s voice. “Watson, look at me.”
He turned and choked back a cry of horror. Indeed, Holmes squatting behind him, water on his clothes, his face pocked with rot and pale with the absence of circulation. White lips and glossy eyes adorned the once known features that were now bedraggled by death and the river. The ghost tilted its head and reached for him as Hamlet to his son did, and he felt his heart speed up in his chest. Too late, his mind cried, far too late; already his friend lay in the dirt, dead and gone, because of his lack of insight. Cowering, he crawled further into the water, his hand catching some sharp rock and tearing, his cry swallowed up by his own rapid gasps.
“Watson?” the ghost called again. “Watson, what do you see?”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “So sorry. Please, please forgive me.”
The ghost moved far faster than he, not bound by the laws of reality, or by his growing exhaustion. It put clammy fingers on his shoulders, put its awful face so close that he could nearly smell the decay. “Forgive what, my friend? Watson, you must tell me what you’re seeing.”
“I should have stayed,” he whispered. “I should’ve stayed but I did not. Please, please forgive me, Holmes. If I’d not been fooled-”
“Holmes!” Perhaps the devil himself had ascended to take him, he reasoned, for surely his friend had come forth for his judgment. “Holmes, either get him under control or I will need to call someone from Bedlam.”
It turned its face from him, towards the shadows where the red eyes glowed and the steam poured forth from the pits. “He has not lost his mind, Lestrade, merely his reason. I should have seen this coming.” And, in a tone too gentle, “Watson, you have never failed me. As I would tell anyone who asks, I have never met a man less selfish. Now, look at me.”
He did, looked upon death and watched it changed; around him, the rocks turned to houses, the light to darkness, the spots of sunshine to lamps and candles; under his hand, rocks and dirt became stones, debris and soot; but, most importantly, in front of him Holmes’s cheeks warmed, his skin repaired and his eyes, the worst of it all, turned a familiar grey. His heart continued its desperate staccato but the pain in his throat, that kept him from words, dissolved.
“Holmes?” he whispered. “I… I thought us somewhere…”
“I know what you thought,” Holmes assured him, protecting him from it. “I know.”
Great weariness pulled at him, far greater than any he could recall suffering from; he dropped his head forward on Holmes’s shoulder. “I… I could not bear it… if it were true.”
“You could,” Holmes murmured, unusually gentle. A hand rested on the back of his head. “You did, even.”
“But I could not do it alone,” he clarified, remembering Mary’s comfort until her own death and wondering how he’d forgotten that horrid passing all together. Again, her hand slipped from his fingers, the light faded from her eyes. He started to see that graveyard with her casket lowered into the ground, the rain dripping down the wood and the headstone and-
“Lestrade, help me with him,” Holmes called. Two sets of hands guided him upwards even as he staggered drunkenly. His hand throbbed and he noticed the deepness of the injury for the first time. Dark droplets of blood swirled from it, down his fingers, then up, up his wrist, to his elbow, towards his shoulder to strangle him. He yelled, jerking away from the pair of supporters but unable to escape it as it tried to overcome him.
“No, Watson!” Holmes, again, and the river, once more. Alive, he knew it. Hands on his face. “No.”
“Holmes, this has gone far enough,” the second voice said. “He’s lost his senses. After the past few weeks, any man would.”
“He is not any man,” Holmes snapped. “You’ve not lost your mind, have you, Watson?”
His tongue felt thick, his mouth dry. “N-no… I… I do not think so.”
“Good,” Holmes approved. “Now, tell the inspector what the symptoms of sleep deprivation are.”
He muddled through his brain, the carefully cultivated lists hard to acquire. Only years of work and recollection helped him, and his faith in the man before him, “H-hallucinations, dry mouth, trembling hands,” Holmes took his one arm and he watched as his fingers shook, “dizziness, aching, nausea, psychosis…” His eyelids dipped down but then clawed back up as one of Holmes’s hands left him.
“He hasn’t slept for four days. And I think, Inspector,” Holmes nearly spat the last word, “that you could hardly find a better fit for that description. Now, help me or find someone who will.” Holmes, with strength that did not fit those thin arms, pulled him upward. “Steady, my dear fellow, steady. Home to a warm bed and a solid rest.”
Rest sounded beautiful and enigmatic, rather like something of legend; it was a mythical creature, splendid, but shy, and dancing just beyond him so he could almost see it but could not take it. He vaguely recalled it, as though, once, he had been allowed it in normal portions, but it felt so far away, or just close enough, just across the river. All he had to do was step out and walk to it and…
“Watson.”
And an anchor took hold of him, keeping him on the shore.