Sherlock Fic: Category Two; Chapter One
“Then how could I have missed that one detail?” he asks and he bends his finger and pulls the trigger and Johns knows the pain and he falls over and inversely Sherlock tilts backwards too, no window, no glass, he falls and disappears out of the hole in 221b Baker Street and leaves only the cold behind.
Warnings: dark, moody, detached body parts, death
Wordcount: 12 Chapters, ~7,648 words
Disclaimer: I don't own them, of course, but I like them, that's why I write about them.
Slash: Sherlock/John if you want to read it like that.
Notes: I originally wrote this fanfiction in german. Then I translated it into english to reach the whole fandom. I hope this doesn't make the story worse. Feel free to point out language mistakes ;)
Hello there:
actually this is my first Sherlock fanfiction. I hope I did a good job here. I'm still getting used to livejournal, so sorry for some strange things happening ;)
The story is finished, it has 13 chapters. But I decided to upload it chapter by chapter.
Have fun, leave comments. Feel free to ask, criticise and suggest. I study creative writing, I'm used to it ;)
~~~ Chapter One ~~~
John breathes in. It is cold, no snow yet, but it already smells like it. Cool exhalations in front of his face, rising up between the buildings, mixing up with the crowds breathe in London City. The sky is grey-white, that’s what snow looks like before it falls. Out of a café behind him the smell of fresh black warm tea flows out on the streets, blends with the smell of winter. John really likes to have a tea right now.
Julie grabs his arm, drags him with her. The plastic bags which John is carrying rub against his trousers. He smiles, doesn’t fight against the pulling, follows the pointing fingers of Julie when she sees something in the shop window, and then he nods or shakes his head and says something. His leg hurts; it’s the cold, perhaps. But not that worse that he starts limping, still not that worse.
_____
The flat is on the sixth floor, there is no lift, and if there were one it would probably be very tight and making some strange noises going up and down the levels. Actually this is one of these London buildings that used to have elevators and sometimes John imagines that somewhere behind a secret door there is a lift that brings you up to a hidden flat.
Julie puts the kettle on; John brings the bags in their bedroom, puts the clothes in the wardrobe, strips of his beige jumper and dons a lighter shirt, the flat is warm, it’s always warm. It’s also small, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and a tiny chamber where John managed to fit in his desk which disappears under patient files and radiographs. For local conditions the rent is low and with Julie working as a nurse again John considers moving to a bigger flat. He earns more money at the hospital now; a bigger flat would be nice.
Julie enters the bedroom, balancing two cuppas in her hands. She places them on the side table, then collapses on the high bed, sighing. She takes one of the cups, folds her hands around it, inhales the ascending warmth. “What a day”, she says, puts the cuppa back, leans forward and takes her socks of, kneads her feet. John gets the hint.
_____
Three nights a week John is home alone. No matter how often Julie and he are trying to adjust their shifts, it is always three nights.
London is noisy tonight, it whooshes and vibrates and screams. Police sirens howl, loud voices some streets further away, rattling. John leaves the window ajar, lets the warmth drain outside. Julie loves the warmth, but John likes to sleep in the cold. 18 degrees is the perfect sleep temperature, John read it in a medical journal. He likes it even colder, cool enough to shiver. Maybe he brought that with him from the war, nights in sandy tents, days in stuffy hideouts, the hot desert around him, bone-crushing. The chill is clear, lucent. It makes a room bigger around you and when you breathe in you can feel every molecule streaming in your lungs. You perceive the process of respiration. Sometimes it hurts.
John only dreams in the nights without Julie. His dreams can be divided into two categories. First. His “normal” nightmares. Sequences from war. A war he never fought like that. They always end with death, sometimes his own, mostly the death of others. Faceless people. The never ending battle. John tries to save them. Runs. Struggles. Arrives too late. His dreams are loud, fast, flickering. And he always loses.
John denies the second category. In fact he just had two dreams that would belong there. Both happened about three years ago. He remembers them well, each detail, each strange twist, each spoken word and gesture. He always forgets his nightmares a second after waking up, after the frightened awakening with a start. He knows what they are but not what exactly happened in them. He is just sure he lost. But for all that the second category is even more painful, and that’s why he denies it.
Second. Dreams about Sherlock.
Warnings: dark, moody, detached body parts, death
Wordcount: 12 Chapters, ~7,648 words
Disclaimer: I don't own them, of course, but I like them, that's why I write about them.
Slash: Sherlock/John if you want to read it like that.
Notes: I originally wrote this fanfiction in german. Then I translated it into english to reach the whole fandom. I hope this doesn't make the story worse. Feel free to point out language mistakes ;)
Hello there:
actually this is my first Sherlock fanfiction. I hope I did a good job here. I'm still getting used to livejournal, so sorry for some strange things happening ;)
The story is finished, it has 13 chapters. But I decided to upload it chapter by chapter.
Have fun, leave comments. Feel free to ask, criticise and suggest. I study creative writing, I'm used to it ;)
~~~ Chapter One ~~~
John breathes in. It is cold, no snow yet, but it already smells like it. Cool exhalations in front of his face, rising up between the buildings, mixing up with the crowds breathe in London City. The sky is grey-white, that’s what snow looks like before it falls. Out of a café behind him the smell of fresh black warm tea flows out on the streets, blends with the smell of winter. John really likes to have a tea right now.
Julie grabs his arm, drags him with her. The plastic bags which John is carrying rub against his trousers. He smiles, doesn’t fight against the pulling, follows the pointing fingers of Julie when she sees something in the shop window, and then he nods or shakes his head and says something. His leg hurts; it’s the cold, perhaps. But not that worse that he starts limping, still not that worse.
_____
The flat is on the sixth floor, there is no lift, and if there were one it would probably be very tight and making some strange noises going up and down the levels. Actually this is one of these London buildings that used to have elevators and sometimes John imagines that somewhere behind a secret door there is a lift that brings you up to a hidden flat.
Julie puts the kettle on; John brings the bags in their bedroom, puts the clothes in the wardrobe, strips of his beige jumper and dons a lighter shirt, the flat is warm, it’s always warm. It’s also small, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and a tiny chamber where John managed to fit in his desk which disappears under patient files and radiographs. For local conditions the rent is low and with Julie working as a nurse again John considers moving to a bigger flat. He earns more money at the hospital now; a bigger flat would be nice.
Julie enters the bedroom, balancing two cuppas in her hands. She places them on the side table, then collapses on the high bed, sighing. She takes one of the cups, folds her hands around it, inhales the ascending warmth. “What a day”, she says, puts the cuppa back, leans forward and takes her socks of, kneads her feet. John gets the hint.
_____
Three nights a week John is home alone. No matter how often Julie and he are trying to adjust their shifts, it is always three nights.
London is noisy tonight, it whooshes and vibrates and screams. Police sirens howl, loud voices some streets further away, rattling. John leaves the window ajar, lets the warmth drain outside. Julie loves the warmth, but John likes to sleep in the cold. 18 degrees is the perfect sleep temperature, John read it in a medical journal. He likes it even colder, cool enough to shiver. Maybe he brought that with him from the war, nights in sandy tents, days in stuffy hideouts, the hot desert around him, bone-crushing. The chill is clear, lucent. It makes a room bigger around you and when you breathe in you can feel every molecule streaming in your lungs. You perceive the process of respiration. Sometimes it hurts.
John only dreams in the nights without Julie. His dreams can be divided into two categories. First. His “normal” nightmares. Sequences from war. A war he never fought like that. They always end with death, sometimes his own, mostly the death of others. Faceless people. The never ending battle. John tries to save them. Runs. Struggles. Arrives too late. His dreams are loud, fast, flickering. And he always loses.
John denies the second category. In fact he just had two dreams that would belong there. Both happened about three years ago. He remembers them well, each detail, each strange twist, each spoken word and gesture. He always forgets his nightmares a second after waking up, after the frightened awakening with a start. He knows what they are but not what exactly happened in them. He is just sure he lost. But for all that the second category is even more painful, and that’s why he denies it.
Second. Dreams about Sherlock.