Tell me i'm here, prologue
A/N: The idea I’ve been holding up for like since the first trailer of the 2009 movie came out which is pretty long ago. The reason I actually didn’t want to start this whole new thing is that English is not my first language, so not only are there billions of mistakes but I also am no expert of old Victorian English you guys all use, so please, bear with me, I can’t do otherwise. If someone could beta this I would be very VERY happy about it.
Prologue.
It all started with a headache, and for the life of him, Holmes can’t remember when, exactly.
But it certainly started some time after Watson’s departure.
At first, it was that slight, almost unnoticeable discomfort, that aching feeling, slowly growing into the headache and somewhere down the line he had stopped acknowledging it at all, as it became the always-presenting part of his being.
Being his sensible and reasonable self, he deduced that the headache must have come as the side-effect of the opium, it was only logical that such drastic drug would cause regular headaches, especially since he was using it so frequently.
Holmes hadn’t let himself worry otherwise it would’ve affected his professional judgment, especially when he had to solve his cases alone since Watson was too busy settling down his new life with Mary Morstan.
So he hadn’t worried until that day it happened for the first time.
It was the Sunday night - about two weeks since Watson’s wedding - when Holmes was awaken by a voice which seemed to sound right in his head. He sat up sharply, his hand quickly reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. There was the whisper in his ears, several voices whispering frantically something that he couldn’t understand.
Panic-stricken for some reason, he turned his head around, hoping to see something or someone in the dim light, that could be the source of voices but he saw none. The air seemed to chill suddenly for several degrees, and Holmes looked around nervously again and again, frowning and biting his lower lip so hard he could feel blood.
The whispers got louder and Holmes felt his heart pounding painfully in his ears, the kind of fear clutching his chest he hadn’t felt in years.
There was a chuckle somewhere from the right corner of the room and Holmes squinted, trying to spot something, anything there, his left hand slipping under the pillow and grabbing the knife there in a death grasp.
He heard the chuckle again and then another one, and as he jerked his head to another side of the room he saw something he couldn’t possibly logically explain in the moment. His heart stopped for what felt like an eternity, the knife slipped out of his hand as he saw a black mist of shadows dancing in the corner of the room, somewhere near the windowsill.
Holmes watched, somewhat horrified, his usual cold temper abandoning him completely, feeling emotions he hadn’t experienced for ages. The hair on his arms stood up with goose bumps and he jerked to the back of the bed, as the black mist moved towards him. He desperately clung fast to the backrest, shocked and terrified, wishing the strange thing to disappear, and nevertheless unable to move, his limbs numb with fear.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the whispering stopped and some of the senses seemed to have returned to Holmes, the blood rushing to his numb arms and legs, and he dropped himself on his back, covering his whole body with a blanket, careful not to leave a single chink.
There was nothing then, only dreadful silence and the sound of his own harsh breathing and his heart beating loudly in his ears as he curled in a ball, wide-eyed and unable to think of any explanation for what had just happened, the fear still clutching his chest in an icy grip.
He lay there for the rest of the night without moving, not even closing his eyes, afraid of hearing the whispers or seeing things again, till morning sun shone through the thing blanket he had covered himself with.
Only then he got up, dressed and fixed his hair, careful not to miss anything that could somehow give in anything about his night incident.
While drinking tea with Watson, several hours later, he showed no sign whatsoever of anything that could possibly bother him and Watson didn’t notice anything nor even tried to, too engrossed in his just-married state.
Yes, that was the very first time it actually happened, at least Holmes thinks so, though now he can’t take for granted his sensibility and memories anymore.
Now, he can’t take anything for granted anymore, and that’s the main problem: he can’t see the thin line where the dream ends and reality begins.
Not anymore.
So he only hopes Watson will be there to tell him.
-----
Like it? Hate it? Am I a complete looser? Please, do tell whether or not I should continue this :)
Prologue.
It all started with a headache, and for the life of him, Holmes can’t remember when, exactly.
But it certainly started some time after Watson’s departure.
At first, it was that slight, almost unnoticeable discomfort, that aching feeling, slowly growing into the headache and somewhere down the line he had stopped acknowledging it at all, as it became the always-presenting part of his being.
Being his sensible and reasonable self, he deduced that the headache must have come as the side-effect of the opium, it was only logical that such drastic drug would cause regular headaches, especially since he was using it so frequently.
Holmes hadn’t let himself worry otherwise it would’ve affected his professional judgment, especially when he had to solve his cases alone since Watson was too busy settling down his new life with Mary Morstan.
So he hadn’t worried until that day it happened for the first time.
It was the Sunday night - about two weeks since Watson’s wedding - when Holmes was awaken by a voice which seemed to sound right in his head. He sat up sharply, his hand quickly reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. There was the whisper in his ears, several voices whispering frantically something that he couldn’t understand.
Panic-stricken for some reason, he turned his head around, hoping to see something or someone in the dim light, that could be the source of voices but he saw none. The air seemed to chill suddenly for several degrees, and Holmes looked around nervously again and again, frowning and biting his lower lip so hard he could feel blood.
The whispers got louder and Holmes felt his heart pounding painfully in his ears, the kind of fear clutching his chest he hadn’t felt in years.
There was a chuckle somewhere from the right corner of the room and Holmes squinted, trying to spot something, anything there, his left hand slipping under the pillow and grabbing the knife there in a death grasp.
He heard the chuckle again and then another one, and as he jerked his head to another side of the room he saw something he couldn’t possibly logically explain in the moment. His heart stopped for what felt like an eternity, the knife slipped out of his hand as he saw a black mist of shadows dancing in the corner of the room, somewhere near the windowsill.
Holmes watched, somewhat horrified, his usual cold temper abandoning him completely, feeling emotions he hadn’t experienced for ages. The hair on his arms stood up with goose bumps and he jerked to the back of the bed, as the black mist moved towards him. He desperately clung fast to the backrest, shocked and terrified, wishing the strange thing to disappear, and nevertheless unable to move, his limbs numb with fear.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the whispering stopped and some of the senses seemed to have returned to Holmes, the blood rushing to his numb arms and legs, and he dropped himself on his back, covering his whole body with a blanket, careful not to leave a single chink.
There was nothing then, only dreadful silence and the sound of his own harsh breathing and his heart beating loudly in his ears as he curled in a ball, wide-eyed and unable to think of any explanation for what had just happened, the fear still clutching his chest in an icy grip.
He lay there for the rest of the night without moving, not even closing his eyes, afraid of hearing the whispers or seeing things again, till morning sun shone through the thing blanket he had covered himself with.
Only then he got up, dressed and fixed his hair, careful not to miss anything that could somehow give in anything about his night incident.
While drinking tea with Watson, several hours later, he showed no sign whatsoever of anything that could possibly bother him and Watson didn’t notice anything nor even tried to, too engrossed in his just-married state.
Yes, that was the very first time it actually happened, at least Holmes thinks so, though now he can’t take for granted his sensibility and memories anymore.
Now, he can’t take anything for granted anymore, and that’s the main problem: he can’t see the thin line where the dream ends and reality begins.
Not anymore.
So he only hopes Watson will be there to tell him.
-----
Like it? Hate it? Am I a complete looser? Please, do tell whether or not I should continue this :)