In This Dark Alley || Sherlock (BBC) || PG-13 ||
Title: In This Dark Alley
Author: _doodle
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 2010) FPS
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes / John Watson (Established Relationship)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1200
Beta: alizarin_nyc
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle.
Summary: There have been too many dead bodies since the night at the pool, too many bullets and love Moriarty’s etched in blood but this is it. The game that has been designed to hurt them both, picking off strangers and people they’d helped, saved, has been turned up a notch.
Notes: The wonderful shehasathree snapped me up as part of the help_nz lightening round. She requested something angsty but not hopeless, based on this excerpt:
In this dark alley, my knee locks
panic breath
hitch in the air
From the Peter Kuppers poem.
Warnings: Off screen death of a minor ACD character (not a popular comedian).
John’s knees buckle thirty feet down the alley, it’s dark and the ground is slick and damp as he hits it hard with knees and palms. Vomit and bile rise in his throat, sharp and bitter and he’s choking on air and revisited tea and spaghetti bolognaise.
Vomit splashes against the back of his hands and there are footsteps echoing down the alley as someone runs after him. Sherlock.
John shuts his eyes as he heaves in a shuddering, desperate, shaking breath. It’s a mistake because he’s heaving again, blood and blonde hair and a bullet hole right through the head burned on the inside of his eyelids.
Oh god Bill Murray.
John retches until he’s coughing up nothing but bile and spit and his stomach is clenching so hard it’s almost impossible for him to breathe. Sherlock’s hand is warm in the centre of his back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades but John’s paralysed. Shock and horror and guilt are locking his muscles in place, his whole body trembling as he tries to snap himself out of it but all he can see is Bill.
Bill Murray who threw him over his shoulder and carried him to safety, a hole in his shoulder, covered in blood and delirious with pain. Bill, the Medical Support Officer that saved his life in Afghanistan, who was supposed to be drinking a pint with John in the pub, barely home for a week.
Not dead in an alley. Not lying in a pool of his own blood, the back of his skull blown out by a sniper rifle, ♥ Moriarty painted in his blood across his chest. Not because he saved John’s life. Not because he was someone John cared about.
John retches and Sherlock’s long fingers brush back the hair that’s stuck to his forehead. When did he start sweating? He’s not hot, he’s freezing.
He topples into Sherlock’s lap, careful hands cushioning the fall and holding him tight against a lean chest as his shivers turn into violent, full body shudders. John buries his face in Sherlock’s shirt and breathes in the familiar scents of rosin and soap and bleach until his heart stops pounding.
One of Sherlock’s hands starts rubbing up and down his spine again and John tries to even his breathing, to see something other than Billy Murray’s dead eyes. There have been too many dead bodies since the night at the pool, too many bullets and love Moriarty’s etched in blood but this is it. The game that has been designed to hurt them both, picking off strangers and people they’d helped, saved, has been turned up a notch. Moriarty has finally succeeded in breaking John, if not Sherlock.
And there’s still nothing they can do.
Sherlock’s heartbeat is loud but steady in John’s ear and he tries, and fails, to match his breathing to the rhythm. “We’re going to get him, John,” Sherlock says softly over the soothing thump of his heart. Speaks the words into John’s hair as he presses hard and desperate and reassuring kisses to John’s crown. “I promise.”
“It’s been three months, thirteen bodies, you can’t promise that,” John chokes out and his voice sounds completely broken, even in his own ears, and he can’t help it.
John wants to believe Sherlock, wants to believe in him but Moriarty has been playing with them for nearly half a year now at least and he’s still out there. Hurting people that neither of them can save. There’s been no rhyme or reason to how he’s chosen his victims and no real evidence for them to follow.
They didn’t even know Bill was in danger, or who might be next, but it will still end the same. False leads and trails left by Moriarty, evidence planted to run Sherlock in circles until there’s another body. Then it’ll start again. Moriarty always one step ahead.
John’s stomach clenches and his whole body tenses as he tries not to vomit spit and bile all over Sherlock, who just holds him tighter. Traces careful, soothing patterns over his back and arms and whispers senseless nothings of reassurance until John slumps boneless and ruined against him.
“Thirteen bodies that have meant nothing to me John, nothing more than a puzzle that needs to be solved,” Sherlock whispers into John’s ear. A sentiment John once would have fought against, been morally outraged by, but now understands, accepts. It’s how Sherlock functions, detachment to allow his mind to work on intellect alone, not to be burdened by mistakes and emotions, and fundamentally, it’s just who he is.
Sherlock tilts John’s chin up to meet his eyes, wide and sincere even in the gloom of the alley. “Now he has made a grave mistake,” he says, his dexterous fingers curling around the nape of John’s neck and there’s anger and steel in Sherlock’s voice. This John can believe.
“And what’s that?”
Sherlock’s entire body tenses against John’s, fingers tightening for just a moment into the back of John’s neck before he breathes out. “He’s changed the rules, he has stopped using strangers.”
“You never even met Bill,” John snaps before he can stop himself, pulling out of Sherlock’s warm, tender hands as anger bubbles up. Replacing the nausea, it’s hot and violent inside his chest, desperate to burst out. “You didn’t want to meet Bill.”
And Bill had wanted to meet Sherlock, wanted the new fella in John’s life to join them for a pint and a chat. Sherlock had refused point blank and then wouldn’t even talk about it, let alone budge. Now Bill was dead he suddenly mattered to Sherlock?
“He saved your life in Afghanistan,” Sherlock says, voice gentle but sure as he cups John’s face in his hands, forces their eyes to meet. John only struggles for a moment, as Sherlock continues to explain. “His opinion matters to you, and he wanted to inspect me because of our relationship. I did not want him to disapprove of me, or the emotional attachment we share. His death harms you in ways I cannot fix. It is personal now.”
“Sherlock,” John breathes, glad he’s already slumped on the ground because his knees wouldn’t hold him. Not after that. Not after Sherlock’s hushed tones and heartfelt words and the most honest emotional exposition John has ever witnessed from the man he’s hopelessly in love with.
“I promise John, we are going to find him and he is going to suffer for this.”
All the anger drains out of John in an instant and he’s left exhausted and battered and so full of love and sorrow it’s a struggle to remember how to breathe. Sherlock wraps John in his arms as his muscles turn to jelly and he finally feels safe, like they might actually be able to make it through this. That Sherlock will find Moriarty and John will put a bullet between his eyes, for the semtex vests, for the red lights of a sniper scope dancing over Sherlock’s chest and for Bill Murray who survived Afghanistan, but not being friends with John Watson.
Sherlock presses another set of careful kisses to the top of John’s head, mutters soft and senseless words of comfort and reassurance in tones of love into his hair.
John clings to Sherlock and breathing deep, believes him.
Author: _doodle
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 2010) FPS
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes / John Watson (Established Relationship)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1200
Beta: alizarin_nyc
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle.
Summary: There have been too many dead bodies since the night at the pool, too many bullets and love Moriarty’s etched in blood but this is it. The game that has been designed to hurt them both, picking off strangers and people they’d helped, saved, has been turned up a notch.
Notes: The wonderful shehasathree snapped me up as part of the help_nz lightening round. She requested something angsty but not hopeless, based on this excerpt:
In this dark alley, my knee locks
panic breath
hitch in the air
From the Peter Kuppers poem.
Warnings: Off screen death of a minor ACD character (not a popular comedian).
John’s knees buckle thirty feet down the alley, it’s dark and the ground is slick and damp as he hits it hard with knees and palms. Vomit and bile rise in his throat, sharp and bitter and he’s choking on air and revisited tea and spaghetti bolognaise.
Vomit splashes against the back of his hands and there are footsteps echoing down the alley as someone runs after him. Sherlock.
John shuts his eyes as he heaves in a shuddering, desperate, shaking breath. It’s a mistake because he’s heaving again, blood and blonde hair and a bullet hole right through the head burned on the inside of his eyelids.
Oh god Bill Murray.
John retches until he’s coughing up nothing but bile and spit and his stomach is clenching so hard it’s almost impossible for him to breathe. Sherlock’s hand is warm in the centre of his back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades but John’s paralysed. Shock and horror and guilt are locking his muscles in place, his whole body trembling as he tries to snap himself out of it but all he can see is Bill.
Bill Murray who threw him over his shoulder and carried him to safety, a hole in his shoulder, covered in blood and delirious with pain. Bill, the Medical Support Officer that saved his life in Afghanistan, who was supposed to be drinking a pint with John in the pub, barely home for a week.
Not dead in an alley. Not lying in a pool of his own blood, the back of his skull blown out by a sniper rifle, ♥ Moriarty painted in his blood across his chest. Not because he saved John’s life. Not because he was someone John cared about.
John retches and Sherlock’s long fingers brush back the hair that’s stuck to his forehead. When did he start sweating? He’s not hot, he’s freezing.
He topples into Sherlock’s lap, careful hands cushioning the fall and holding him tight against a lean chest as his shivers turn into violent, full body shudders. John buries his face in Sherlock’s shirt and breathes in the familiar scents of rosin and soap and bleach until his heart stops pounding.
One of Sherlock’s hands starts rubbing up and down his spine again and John tries to even his breathing, to see something other than Billy Murray’s dead eyes. There have been too many dead bodies since the night at the pool, too many bullets and love Moriarty’s etched in blood but this is it. The game that has been designed to hurt them both, picking off strangers and people they’d helped, saved, has been turned up a notch. Moriarty has finally succeeded in breaking John, if not Sherlock.
And there’s still nothing they can do.
Sherlock’s heartbeat is loud but steady in John’s ear and he tries, and fails, to match his breathing to the rhythm. “We’re going to get him, John,” Sherlock says softly over the soothing thump of his heart. Speaks the words into John’s hair as he presses hard and desperate and reassuring kisses to John’s crown. “I promise.”
“It’s been three months, thirteen bodies, you can’t promise that,” John chokes out and his voice sounds completely broken, even in his own ears, and he can’t help it.
John wants to believe Sherlock, wants to believe in him but Moriarty has been playing with them for nearly half a year now at least and he’s still out there. Hurting people that neither of them can save. There’s been no rhyme or reason to how he’s chosen his victims and no real evidence for them to follow.
They didn’t even know Bill was in danger, or who might be next, but it will still end the same. False leads and trails left by Moriarty, evidence planted to run Sherlock in circles until there’s another body. Then it’ll start again. Moriarty always one step ahead.
John’s stomach clenches and his whole body tenses as he tries not to vomit spit and bile all over Sherlock, who just holds him tighter. Traces careful, soothing patterns over his back and arms and whispers senseless nothings of reassurance until John slumps boneless and ruined against him.
“Thirteen bodies that have meant nothing to me John, nothing more than a puzzle that needs to be solved,” Sherlock whispers into John’s ear. A sentiment John once would have fought against, been morally outraged by, but now understands, accepts. It’s how Sherlock functions, detachment to allow his mind to work on intellect alone, not to be burdened by mistakes and emotions, and fundamentally, it’s just who he is.
Sherlock tilts John’s chin up to meet his eyes, wide and sincere even in the gloom of the alley. “Now he has made a grave mistake,” he says, his dexterous fingers curling around the nape of John’s neck and there’s anger and steel in Sherlock’s voice. This John can believe.
“And what’s that?”
Sherlock’s entire body tenses against John’s, fingers tightening for just a moment into the back of John’s neck before he breathes out. “He’s changed the rules, he has stopped using strangers.”
“You never even met Bill,” John snaps before he can stop himself, pulling out of Sherlock’s warm, tender hands as anger bubbles up. Replacing the nausea, it’s hot and violent inside his chest, desperate to burst out. “You didn’t want to meet Bill.”
And Bill had wanted to meet Sherlock, wanted the new fella in John’s life to join them for a pint and a chat. Sherlock had refused point blank and then wouldn’t even talk about it, let alone budge. Now Bill was dead he suddenly mattered to Sherlock?
“He saved your life in Afghanistan,” Sherlock says, voice gentle but sure as he cups John’s face in his hands, forces their eyes to meet. John only struggles for a moment, as Sherlock continues to explain. “His opinion matters to you, and he wanted to inspect me because of our relationship. I did not want him to disapprove of me, or the emotional attachment we share. His death harms you in ways I cannot fix. It is personal now.”
“Sherlock,” John breathes, glad he’s already slumped on the ground because his knees wouldn’t hold him. Not after that. Not after Sherlock’s hushed tones and heartfelt words and the most honest emotional exposition John has ever witnessed from the man he’s hopelessly in love with.
“I promise John, we are going to find him and he is going to suffer for this.”
All the anger drains out of John in an instant and he’s left exhausted and battered and so full of love and sorrow it’s a struggle to remember how to breathe. Sherlock wraps John in his arms as his muscles turn to jelly and he finally feels safe, like they might actually be able to make it through this. That Sherlock will find Moriarty and John will put a bullet between his eyes, for the semtex vests, for the red lights of a sniper scope dancing over Sherlock’s chest and for Bill Murray who survived Afghanistan, but not being friends with John Watson.
Sherlock presses another set of careful kisses to the top of John’s head, mutters soft and senseless words of comfort and reassurance in tones of love into his hair.
John clings to Sherlock and breathing deep, believes him.