Sherlock Fic: Leaving things undone: Prologue
Well, I started a new series.
Or to be more precisely: I nearly finished it (in German, though). Now I'm translating, and well, here is the beginning ;)
It is, after all, a little experiment, lots of brackets, lots of first person perspective, lot of Sherlocks twisted mind.
I hope you enjoy it. Please, leave a comment, I like them ;)
EDIT: I now have a wonderful beta reader! She's doing an absolutely great job and is helping me a lot with my translations! Thank you very much,
swissmarg!
So, have a edited version of the prologue and look forward to even better next chapters :)
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Leaving things undone
Prologue:
Thinking about it, I realize there were many clues (of course, I saw them but ignored them). Many things that should have made me wonder. Why didn’t I observe them?
Mycroft, talking about responsibility and distraction and unhealthy choices (I nod, I always nod and ignore him).
John, throwing away letters (and his eyes so hard to interpret).
Some books and tea cups and folders disappearing from their usual places (and my hands searching for them just for ten minutes and then losing interest).
I ignored them. (Stupid, stupid....)
London is reflected in the cabs window (oh beautiful London, you buzzing old city, full of these dark alleys and crimes and deaths and people, all these various characters), and I lean against the cold glass, dark curls almost too long. There was a case, of course, a serial killer leaving notes on playing cards (tricky, a challenge!). That had engaged me for quite a while, no time for haircuts, no time for brothers and flatmates or disappearing stuff at 221b Baker Street. The changes happened while I was out, visiting crime scenes, talking to Lestrade (or better: fighting his incredible incompetence), solving the riddle.
Even while sitting silently in the cab my mind is racing. Well, it always is, it can’t calm down, it sees all these things that others don’t see, and I’m happy with it, just sometimes I wish it would be quiet a few seconds. I finally managed to break the code, was able to locate the culprit (that clever bastard!), and after a long night and a race through London they found and arrested him. He smiled at me, he was happy to get caught, (always so eager the clever ones).
The adrenaline still rushes through my body (the sweet rush of a solved crime that will not last for long), even if the murderer was captured hours ago and all that is left is paper work and the court case. I never go there, I write things down, (things they won’t even read). But it isn’t over yet, this case, there is but one last thing to do, and that is telling John the whole story (John, my faithful blogger, John, the one I called a friend once) John who surprisingly had decided to stay home.
Sitting in my cab to Baker Street - I like cabs, it’s silent in here as soon as I tell the driver that I don’t want to talk, (and London out there seems like a moving picture, a stretched photograph) - I wonder how John will react. He might be angry; after all I have barely been home for weeks, all my attention focused on the case. John doesn’t like that (it has nothing to do with affection, really), just the strange thing called friendship that requires so much work and actually demands spending some time with each other and talking and stuff, but on the other hand, I offered more than once that he could participate, come with me to the crime scenes, join me in the fun (I didn’t say the last thing, though, I know that to John it’s a bit not good). John refused, talked about work and other things I can’t quite remember because they weren’t important at that time. (Stupid, stupid…)
John can never be angry at me for too long, I learned that while living with him. Soon he will be interested in this twisted case (at last he likes the dark cases as much as I do, he just doesn’t say it out loud), he will sit down, maybe take out his laptop and then he will stare at me in anticipation (and he will lick his lip like he always does when he’s interested or excited) and wait for me to start telling the story. Later he will write it down in his blog, smiling at himself and his great literary talent, choosing stupid titles like The Joker Case and leaving all the best parts out (basically the parts with me making deductions, because “it is quite tedious for normal people to read”). But still, I actually like the little rows we have from time to time, I enjoy it (it’s when my mind calms down a bit). It is the last thing I do before I fall back down into boring blackness, before I vanish and become a zombie-like being, crouching on the sofa and waiting for my phone to ring (while I listen to the rushing sound of my head screaming for work).
With this in mind, I leave the cab when it stops in front of my (our) flat. Outside it is still cold and it is raining a bit, just small drops which are forerunners of a rainstorm (the clouds at the horizon, the way they build themselves up above the crystalline buildings of London, the pressure easily felt inside my ear that tells me about the weather front), winter hasn’t left yet, and a strong wind blows down the street.
That particular wind forces the man leaving 221b Bakerstreet at that very moment to keep his umbrella shut and flip up his coat collar (I wonder if I have ever seen him without his umbrella since he left to become the government). When he looks up he meets my gaze, which must (I admit) look quite surprised, because I didn’t expect him to be here. And he tries to smile and instantly knows that he failed to do it properly.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft simply says (I hate how my name sounds when it comes out of his mouth), nodding at me and lifting his hand, a sign for his car which is probably waiting just a few yards down the street to pick him up. He doesn’t show the slightest inclination to talk to me, so he wasn’t here to see me, and talking to Mrs. Hudson seems unlikely, so John it was, and a frown forms on my face.
“Anything of importance?” I ask my (older) brother, turning around in front of the door before I enter the flat and before Mycroft can disappear into his saloon car.
Something that I can only call a sad expression (I can’t say yet why, not enough information) forms on Mycroft’s face. He looks away from me (as if he’s trying to avoid eye contact) and says, silent against the wind: “I just reminded Dr. Watson of something he seemed to have forgotten.”
A strange feeling manifests itself in my stomach. I ate this morning, so I know it’s not hunger, but I don’t like the feeling of not knowing something, so I trick myself into believing it’s just hunger (it never works), and it pushes away the excitement I felt on my way home. So, telling John all about my last case has to wait.
When I enter the flat I can smell that something has happened. Usually our living room is filled with the scent of tea and scones, mixed with traces of the chemicals I use for my experiments in the kitchen (at some point John gave up complaining, I bet he actually likes the smell now). There also is the subtle smell of dust, swirling up from the old books I sometimes bring with me, floating through the room and settling on the wallpaper just until a sudden breeze raises it again. All in all it is something I appreciate. Nothing smells like our flat, it smells of things I (well, not love, of course) can bear. It is the closest thing to home I ever had, and it’s surprising how easily this thought comes up, given the energy I spent months ago to suppress it (because it’s a thought full of emotions I don’t need).
But now there is another scent in the air, overlaying everything with its sharp heaviness (spicy, dark, smoke, just smoke). I know that smell. The smell of cigarettes.
“You don’t smoke,” I say when entering the kitchen. One simple sentence, but my mind is racing. Cigarettes (he never smokes!), so something changed, something is new. It can’t be that he is just giving it a try, that’s not John (no, no), something happened. He needs a cigarette, why does he need to smoke, to alleviate stress? Tea has always done the job, even if he was tired (and he is often tired, it’s the job and the crimes), but even then a nice warm cup of tea always helps with the stress, so what’s new? What else, what did I miss?
John looks up; he is leaning against the counter, the partly smoked cigarette in his hand (a strange picture, I file it: John’s fingers around a cigarette).
“Well, obviously I do. Right now,” he says, lifting the fag to his mouth, taking a pull (I file that too).
I decide to ignore John’s sarcasm and blame it on a stressful day at the hospital. But that isn’t enough for John to change his habits. There is something else.
“What did you talk about? Mycroft and you?” I ask, sounding as casual as possible while going through some letters which lie on the kitchen table between Petri dishes and flasks. Nothing of interest, but I keep focusing on the papers in my hands, I don’t want to look as if I actually care (and meanwhile I already have a couple of theories, I give them numbers in an imaginary list).
John stays silent for a while, slowly breathing out the smoke (the nicotine patch on my forearm itches). Finally he stubs the cigarette out in a small teacup.
“You’ve seemed pretty occupied the last couple of weeks…” he starts. I grunt, my gaze still fixed on the letter I‘ve now read about ten times already.
“Occupied, yes. It was a case, a good case, even. I offered that you could come along but you were busy too, and it seemed like you didn’t care about what I was doing, so, well, yes, I was occupied. Problem?”
John clenches his hands into fists, his body strains, his pupils wander down, fixating the ground. I notice all these little changes in John’s body while watching him through my long curls falling down from my forehead (I really need a haircut).
“You know, Sherlock,” (I like it more when he says my name, it sounds different) “the world keeps turning, even when you’re not around, just in case you wondered. There are things happening to others, surprisingly even to me. And usually you are the first one to notice, but not this time, so I just assume that I became boring and that you don’t give a FUCK AT ALL.”
I look up in surprise. John shouted the last three words in my direction, and I was totally unprepared for an emotional outburst like that (boring, John? How could you ever become boring?). I want to scream out these words but that would be stupid.
Instead I try to remember what happened during the last couple of weeks, I want to answer with some information (information, the stuff I sometimes live off, forget food, forget water), something that would show John that I of course listened to him, and that he is wrong, but all I can remember is the case (and the riddle, the cards and the cipher and that clever bastard that managed to escape for three long weeks). I frown, try to concentrate (think, think!), but there is John and he is really upset (I don’t like that look, it’s new, it contains so much more anger than “you put a head in our fridge again”) and I watch him, unable to say anything at all (this is new as well, interesting) and suddenly he shakes his head and chuckles, resigned.
“Well, maybe this is it,” John says, more to himself. “You know, I received a letter recently, the last of many, I must say, because I tried to ignore them all.”
(John, throwing away letters. His gaze so sad and lost.)
“And as it seems Mycroft has his fingers in this as well, I don’t understand it at all, and that was what we were talking about, actually, a lot of shouting was involved too.”
(Mycroft, talking about responsibility and distraction and unhealthy choices) I nod, I always nod without listening closely to him. I can’t even remember when we had that conversation.
“But I knew from the start that I couldn’t do anything against it, so I began packing my things weeks ago. I thought that would be the minute you would realise it.”
(Some books and tea cups and folders disappearing from their usual places) My hands, searching for the things, only minutes until I lost interest. (Only minutes.)
My eyes widen, I watch John taking the small cup with the cigarette butt in it and putting it into the sink. When he turns around he looks angry again, but sad at the same time (a strange mixture, impossible to interpret).
“You did not notice. I guess that makes it easier, right? I thought you would be, well, not upset, that’s not you, but maybe a little bit annoyed at the thought of me leaving this place.”
“Leaving….this…place?” I mouth John’s last words, almost inaudible (and the pieces of the puzzle are clicking together).
“One week, Sherlock, and it’s all yours”, John laughs bitterly, waving his hands around. Then he leaves, his steps heavy on the stairs (the sound of him limping again hurts), he doesn’t bang the door, he just goes away like everything has been said (and maybe it has).
I’m left behind and stare at the sink in which the cup lies. The smell of the cigarette smoke still fills the room, the smell of new habits and stress and change (and John leaving). Suddenly I spot a letter on the counter where John was standing. I slowly move toward it, try to reach for it but then I stop. I see the emblem (the lion; the crown; the crossed swords). The British Army.
And I know everything.
This is the moment I decide that I can’t let him go, I can’t say why, I just know it must not happen. I’ve got seven days. A whole week (today’s Sunday, tomorrow is Monday, and he will leave the Monday after that). Seven ways to stop him from leaving.
In the end I decide, that John hasn’t completed his task yet (I trick myself again; I have no idea what John’s task would be), but I keep telling myself that he isn’t done here (I need a reason, there always has to be one). In my head ideas are forming themselves (seven days, seven ways), my fingers are already searching for a pen and paper.
And I just can’t let him leave (I think) when there are things undone.
Or to be more precisely: I nearly finished it (in German, though). Now I'm translating, and well, here is the beginning ;)
It is, after all, a little experiment, lots of brackets, lots of first person perspective, lot of Sherlocks twisted mind.
I hope you enjoy it. Please, leave a comment, I like them ;)
EDIT: I now have a wonderful beta reader! She's doing an absolutely great job and is helping me a lot with my translations! Thank you very much,
swissmarg!
So, have a edited version of the prologue and look forward to even better next chapters :)
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Leaving things undone
Prologue:
Thinking about it, I realize there were many clues (of course, I saw them but ignored them). Many things that should have made me wonder. Why didn’t I observe them?
Mycroft, talking about responsibility and distraction and unhealthy choices (I nod, I always nod and ignore him).
John, throwing away letters (and his eyes so hard to interpret).
Some books and tea cups and folders disappearing from their usual places (and my hands searching for them just for ten minutes and then losing interest).
I ignored them. (Stupid, stupid....)
London is reflected in the cabs window (oh beautiful London, you buzzing old city, full of these dark alleys and crimes and deaths and people, all these various characters), and I lean against the cold glass, dark curls almost too long. There was a case, of course, a serial killer leaving notes on playing cards (tricky, a challenge!). That had engaged me for quite a while, no time for haircuts, no time for brothers and flatmates or disappearing stuff at 221b Baker Street. The changes happened while I was out, visiting crime scenes, talking to Lestrade (or better: fighting his incredible incompetence), solving the riddle.
Even while sitting silently in the cab my mind is racing. Well, it always is, it can’t calm down, it sees all these things that others don’t see, and I’m happy with it, just sometimes I wish it would be quiet a few seconds. I finally managed to break the code, was able to locate the culprit (that clever bastard!), and after a long night and a race through London they found and arrested him. He smiled at me, he was happy to get caught, (always so eager the clever ones).
The adrenaline still rushes through my body (the sweet rush of a solved crime that will not last for long), even if the murderer was captured hours ago and all that is left is paper work and the court case. I never go there, I write things down, (things they won’t even read). But it isn’t over yet, this case, there is but one last thing to do, and that is telling John the whole story (John, my faithful blogger, John, the one I called a friend once) John who surprisingly had decided to stay home.
Sitting in my cab to Baker Street - I like cabs, it’s silent in here as soon as I tell the driver that I don’t want to talk, (and London out there seems like a moving picture, a stretched photograph) - I wonder how John will react. He might be angry; after all I have barely been home for weeks, all my attention focused on the case. John doesn’t like that (it has nothing to do with affection, really), just the strange thing called friendship that requires so much work and actually demands spending some time with each other and talking and stuff, but on the other hand, I offered more than once that he could participate, come with me to the crime scenes, join me in the fun (I didn’t say the last thing, though, I know that to John it’s a bit not good). John refused, talked about work and other things I can’t quite remember because they weren’t important at that time. (Stupid, stupid…)
John can never be angry at me for too long, I learned that while living with him. Soon he will be interested in this twisted case (at last he likes the dark cases as much as I do, he just doesn’t say it out loud), he will sit down, maybe take out his laptop and then he will stare at me in anticipation (and he will lick his lip like he always does when he’s interested or excited) and wait for me to start telling the story. Later he will write it down in his blog, smiling at himself and his great literary talent, choosing stupid titles like The Joker Case and leaving all the best parts out (basically the parts with me making deductions, because “it is quite tedious for normal people to read”). But still, I actually like the little rows we have from time to time, I enjoy it (it’s when my mind calms down a bit). It is the last thing I do before I fall back down into boring blackness, before I vanish and become a zombie-like being, crouching on the sofa and waiting for my phone to ring (while I listen to the rushing sound of my head screaming for work).
With this in mind, I leave the cab when it stops in front of my (our) flat. Outside it is still cold and it is raining a bit, just small drops which are forerunners of a rainstorm (the clouds at the horizon, the way they build themselves up above the crystalline buildings of London, the pressure easily felt inside my ear that tells me about the weather front), winter hasn’t left yet, and a strong wind blows down the street.
That particular wind forces the man leaving 221b Bakerstreet at that very moment to keep his umbrella shut and flip up his coat collar (I wonder if I have ever seen him without his umbrella since he left to become the government). When he looks up he meets my gaze, which must (I admit) look quite surprised, because I didn’t expect him to be here. And he tries to smile and instantly knows that he failed to do it properly.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft simply says (I hate how my name sounds when it comes out of his mouth), nodding at me and lifting his hand, a sign for his car which is probably waiting just a few yards down the street to pick him up. He doesn’t show the slightest inclination to talk to me, so he wasn’t here to see me, and talking to Mrs. Hudson seems unlikely, so John it was, and a frown forms on my face.
“Anything of importance?” I ask my (older) brother, turning around in front of the door before I enter the flat and before Mycroft can disappear into his saloon car.
Something that I can only call a sad expression (I can’t say yet why, not enough information) forms on Mycroft’s face. He looks away from me (as if he’s trying to avoid eye contact) and says, silent against the wind: “I just reminded Dr. Watson of something he seemed to have forgotten.”
A strange feeling manifests itself in my stomach. I ate this morning, so I know it’s not hunger, but I don’t like the feeling of not knowing something, so I trick myself into believing it’s just hunger (it never works), and it pushes away the excitement I felt on my way home. So, telling John all about my last case has to wait.
When I enter the flat I can smell that something has happened. Usually our living room is filled with the scent of tea and scones, mixed with traces of the chemicals I use for my experiments in the kitchen (at some point John gave up complaining, I bet he actually likes the smell now). There also is the subtle smell of dust, swirling up from the old books I sometimes bring with me, floating through the room and settling on the wallpaper just until a sudden breeze raises it again. All in all it is something I appreciate. Nothing smells like our flat, it smells of things I (well, not love, of course) can bear. It is the closest thing to home I ever had, and it’s surprising how easily this thought comes up, given the energy I spent months ago to suppress it (because it’s a thought full of emotions I don’t need).
But now there is another scent in the air, overlaying everything with its sharp heaviness (spicy, dark, smoke, just smoke). I know that smell. The smell of cigarettes.
“You don’t smoke,” I say when entering the kitchen. One simple sentence, but my mind is racing. Cigarettes (he never smokes!), so something changed, something is new. It can’t be that he is just giving it a try, that’s not John (no, no), something happened. He needs a cigarette, why does he need to smoke, to alleviate stress? Tea has always done the job, even if he was tired (and he is often tired, it’s the job and the crimes), but even then a nice warm cup of tea always helps with the stress, so what’s new? What else, what did I miss?
John looks up; he is leaning against the counter, the partly smoked cigarette in his hand (a strange picture, I file it: John’s fingers around a cigarette).
“Well, obviously I do. Right now,” he says, lifting the fag to his mouth, taking a pull (I file that too).
I decide to ignore John’s sarcasm and blame it on a stressful day at the hospital. But that isn’t enough for John to change his habits. There is something else.
“What did you talk about? Mycroft and you?” I ask, sounding as casual as possible while going through some letters which lie on the kitchen table between Petri dishes and flasks. Nothing of interest, but I keep focusing on the papers in my hands, I don’t want to look as if I actually care (and meanwhile I already have a couple of theories, I give them numbers in an imaginary list).
John stays silent for a while, slowly breathing out the smoke (the nicotine patch on my forearm itches). Finally he stubs the cigarette out in a small teacup.
“You’ve seemed pretty occupied the last couple of weeks…” he starts. I grunt, my gaze still fixed on the letter I‘ve now read about ten times already.
“Occupied, yes. It was a case, a good case, even. I offered that you could come along but you were busy too, and it seemed like you didn’t care about what I was doing, so, well, yes, I was occupied. Problem?”
John clenches his hands into fists, his body strains, his pupils wander down, fixating the ground. I notice all these little changes in John’s body while watching him through my long curls falling down from my forehead (I really need a haircut).
“You know, Sherlock,” (I like it more when he says my name, it sounds different) “the world keeps turning, even when you’re not around, just in case you wondered. There are things happening to others, surprisingly even to me. And usually you are the first one to notice, but not this time, so I just assume that I became boring and that you don’t give a FUCK AT ALL.”
I look up in surprise. John shouted the last three words in my direction, and I was totally unprepared for an emotional outburst like that (boring, John? How could you ever become boring?). I want to scream out these words but that would be stupid.
Instead I try to remember what happened during the last couple of weeks, I want to answer with some information (information, the stuff I sometimes live off, forget food, forget water), something that would show John that I of course listened to him, and that he is wrong, but all I can remember is the case (and the riddle, the cards and the cipher and that clever bastard that managed to escape for three long weeks). I frown, try to concentrate (think, think!), but there is John and he is really upset (I don’t like that look, it’s new, it contains so much more anger than “you put a head in our fridge again”) and I watch him, unable to say anything at all (this is new as well, interesting) and suddenly he shakes his head and chuckles, resigned.
“Well, maybe this is it,” John says, more to himself. “You know, I received a letter recently, the last of many, I must say, because I tried to ignore them all.”
(John, throwing away letters. His gaze so sad and lost.)
“And as it seems Mycroft has his fingers in this as well, I don’t understand it at all, and that was what we were talking about, actually, a lot of shouting was involved too.”
(Mycroft, talking about responsibility and distraction and unhealthy choices) I nod, I always nod without listening closely to him. I can’t even remember when we had that conversation.
“But I knew from the start that I couldn’t do anything against it, so I began packing my things weeks ago. I thought that would be the minute you would realise it.”
(Some books and tea cups and folders disappearing from their usual places) My hands, searching for the things, only minutes until I lost interest. (Only minutes.)
My eyes widen, I watch John taking the small cup with the cigarette butt in it and putting it into the sink. When he turns around he looks angry again, but sad at the same time (a strange mixture, impossible to interpret).
“You did not notice. I guess that makes it easier, right? I thought you would be, well, not upset, that’s not you, but maybe a little bit annoyed at the thought of me leaving this place.”
“Leaving….this…place?” I mouth John’s last words, almost inaudible (and the pieces of the puzzle are clicking together).
“One week, Sherlock, and it’s all yours”, John laughs bitterly, waving his hands around. Then he leaves, his steps heavy on the stairs (the sound of him limping again hurts), he doesn’t bang the door, he just goes away like everything has been said (and maybe it has).
I’m left behind and stare at the sink in which the cup lies. The smell of the cigarette smoke still fills the room, the smell of new habits and stress and change (and John leaving). Suddenly I spot a letter on the counter where John was standing. I slowly move toward it, try to reach for it but then I stop. I see the emblem (the lion; the crown; the crossed swords). The British Army.
And I know everything.
This is the moment I decide that I can’t let him go, I can’t say why, I just know it must not happen. I’ve got seven days. A whole week (today’s Sunday, tomorrow is Monday, and he will leave the Monday after that). Seven ways to stop him from leaving.
In the end I decide, that John hasn’t completed his task yet (I trick myself again; I have no idea what John’s task would be), but I keep telling myself that he isn’t done here (I need a reason, there always has to be one). In my head ideas are forming themselves (seven days, seven ways), my fingers are already searching for a pen and paper.
And I just can’t let him leave (I think) when there are things undone.