Fic: Phantoms of Fire and Ice
Title: Phantoms of Fire and Ice
Author: dweo
Words: 749 words
Category: Angst
Rating: PG13
Characters: Sherlock
Pairings: None
Warnings:None
Summary: Sherlock contemplates his body's failure after the Reichenbach Falls.
AN: Written for thegameison_sh The challenge was Phantom Touch. And since I was rather frustrated with my own leg I just decided to take it out on Sherlock.
Phantoms of Fire and Ice
He sat back in his chair, his eyes on the cane. He always disliked the thing, once a crutch for phantom pain, now a crutch for a phantom man. The irony was delicious.
He closed his eyes as he felt the heat starting. He could almost see the flames searing his left leg, starting small, extending quickly until his whole thigh was engulfed. There was no pain, not really, although soon his body would no longer differentiate between heat and pain. He tried to tell his body there was no fire, no heat, but it wouldn't listen, not anymore.
A minute or an hour later, he didn't know, time had no longer any meaning, the heat disappeared. The cold that followed wasn't any better. It felt like his leg was slowly encased in ice. Still there was no pain. The cold luckily left quickly this time, only to be replaced by something worse.
The pain shot up his leg and made him cry out loud. Once, before this, before the fall, he would have been fascinated by knowing how many nerves there were in a person's leg, but after having felt every single one of them he wish he could delete that information.
He needed to block out the pain, needed to do something. So he brought his hands up in a familiar position, holding a violin that wasn't there. The pain in his wrist was real, grounded him, diverted his attention from the pain in his leg. He played his favourite music in his mind, and let his fingers dance in the air. Through the pain he wondered if he would ever play again, run again, be whole again. In a fit of anger he threw the violin against the wall. He shuddered at his own movement, even the fake throwing of a non-real violin against the wall made violinist in him cringe.
But his diversion worked and his leg no longer hurt, but the nothingness that replaced the pain was perhaps even worse.
He stood up gracefully, until his leg buckled for moment. He regained himself and limped to the mirror, to the cane. He looked himself, all bones, sinewy muscle and scars. His mind immediately catalogued the facts, the slight yellow in his skin, the last traces of the bruises, and scars in various stage of healing.
His right arm slowly caressed his ribs, forcing him to bite back the hiss of pain as he pressed slightly too hard on his still healing ribs. His fingers danced over the small, still pink, scar on his left side. Tension pneumothorax had been put down as cause of death on his death certificate. He had suggested death by interfering Big Brother/ Archenemy, but Mycroft had predictably disagreed.
His right hand now followed the few remaining traces of yellow up his leg. He watched his finger glide over the skin, the feedback from his fingers the only indication he was touching his leg.
Nerve damage they had said.
If lucky it might recover they had added.
He never had a need for doctors he once said to Mycroft. He was however very good at deluding himself as Mycroft had pointed out in reply. Sherlock had at that point wondered if the fall hadn't broken more than just some bones.
He, of course, had not been able to contain his curiosity afterwards, as the needle traces all over his leg proved. It had been a diversion for a few hours until Mycroft spoiled it by hitting the needle from his hand and ordering a suicide watch for him.
He stubbornly refused to even look at his wrist at this point. The thought of never running again was painful; the thought of never holding the violin again was true agony. He shook his head. There was no time for this. He had only just begun his journey. The failure of his body wasn't going to stop him.
He took the cane, grip slightly too firm, and wondered if John ever missed it. He had taken the cane to destroy it, because he figured without it John could never leave him. Now he was alone in a hotel room and John was only a few miles away, mourning his death. Sherlock had never thought he would be the one to leave.
Sherlock took one last look at himself before turning around, making one last promises to himself. He would be the one to return the cane to John, and he would be whole again when he did.
AN: I have had every single one of Sherlock's injuries after a climbing accident. So this story was all about me dealing with my own frustrations and the fact that I apparently still have a whole falling of mountain trigger, which is decidedly not a good thing in this fandom
Author: dweo
Words: 749 words
Category: Angst
Rating: PG13
Characters: Sherlock
Pairings: None
Warnings:None
Summary: Sherlock contemplates his body's failure after the Reichenbach Falls.
AN: Written for thegameison_sh The challenge was Phantom Touch. And since I was rather frustrated with my own leg I just decided to take it out on Sherlock.
Phantoms of Fire and Ice
He sat back in his chair, his eyes on the cane. He always disliked the thing, once a crutch for phantom pain, now a crutch for a phantom man. The irony was delicious.
He closed his eyes as he felt the heat starting. He could almost see the flames searing his left leg, starting small, extending quickly until his whole thigh was engulfed. There was no pain, not really, although soon his body would no longer differentiate between heat and pain. He tried to tell his body there was no fire, no heat, but it wouldn't listen, not anymore.
A minute or an hour later, he didn't know, time had no longer any meaning, the heat disappeared. The cold that followed wasn't any better. It felt like his leg was slowly encased in ice. Still there was no pain. The cold luckily left quickly this time, only to be replaced by something worse.
The pain shot up his leg and made him cry out loud. Once, before this, before the fall, he would have been fascinated by knowing how many nerves there were in a person's leg, but after having felt every single one of them he wish he could delete that information.
He needed to block out the pain, needed to do something. So he brought his hands up in a familiar position, holding a violin that wasn't there. The pain in his wrist was real, grounded him, diverted his attention from the pain in his leg. He played his favourite music in his mind, and let his fingers dance in the air. Through the pain he wondered if he would ever play again, run again, be whole again. In a fit of anger he threw the violin against the wall. He shuddered at his own movement, even the fake throwing of a non-real violin against the wall made violinist in him cringe.
But his diversion worked and his leg no longer hurt, but the nothingness that replaced the pain was perhaps even worse.
He stood up gracefully, until his leg buckled for moment. He regained himself and limped to the mirror, to the cane. He looked himself, all bones, sinewy muscle and scars. His mind immediately catalogued the facts, the slight yellow in his skin, the last traces of the bruises, and scars in various stage of healing.
His right arm slowly caressed his ribs, forcing him to bite back the hiss of pain as he pressed slightly too hard on his still healing ribs. His fingers danced over the small, still pink, scar on his left side. Tension pneumothorax had been put down as cause of death on his death certificate. He had suggested death by interfering Big Brother/ Archenemy, but Mycroft had predictably disagreed.
His right hand now followed the few remaining traces of yellow up his leg. He watched his finger glide over the skin, the feedback from his fingers the only indication he was touching his leg.
Nerve damage they had said.
If lucky it might recover they had added.
He never had a need for doctors he once said to Mycroft. He was however very good at deluding himself as Mycroft had pointed out in reply. Sherlock had at that point wondered if the fall hadn't broken more than just some bones.
He, of course, had not been able to contain his curiosity afterwards, as the needle traces all over his leg proved. It had been a diversion for a few hours until Mycroft spoiled it by hitting the needle from his hand and ordering a suicide watch for him.
He stubbornly refused to even look at his wrist at this point. The thought of never running again was painful; the thought of never holding the violin again was true agony. He shook his head. There was no time for this. He had only just begun his journey. The failure of his body wasn't going to stop him.
He took the cane, grip slightly too firm, and wondered if John ever missed it. He had taken the cane to destroy it, because he figured without it John could never leave him. Now he was alone in a hotel room and John was only a few miles away, mourning his death. Sherlock had never thought he would be the one to leave.
Sherlock took one last look at himself before turning around, making one last promises to himself. He would be the one to return the cane to John, and he would be whole again when he did.
AN: I have had every single one of Sherlock's injuries after a climbing accident. So this story was all about me dealing with my own frustrations and the fact that I apparently still have a whole falling of mountain trigger, which is decidedly not a good thing in this fandom