Turning, Flowing, Slipping, Falling (Sherlock/Sea Wall)
A 221b drabble written for krystallissa's irresistible prompt of "Jim Moriarty is Alex from Sea Wall." This story will make no sense if you haven't watched the short film Sea Wall, and I recommend that you click that link and spend the ten bucks and the half hour to do just that, regardless of whether you have been taken in by the delectable Andrew Scott or BBC's Sherlock. Please note, however, that it is a very upsetting film.
They swim into his head, in his sleep and in his waking hours, images of hair, matted like blood. For years, it’s Lucy, over and over until gradually she’s replaced by Sherlock.
Of course it hardly matters, as it’s all just…meat, flesh, the same dark red and it’s such a relief, that it finally, finally stops flowing.
This is what people do.
His patience is wearing thin, because his blood is still coursing throughout his veins, taking in oxygen but he is rotting from the inside out; it has been so long since he died, and the stench must be threatening to spill out of him.
He cannot make Sherlock understand, but he, they, can’t be allowed to continue. They are one and the same, and nothing, nothing so wrong should be allowed to exist.
He used to take pictures, photographs, capture pieces of time, frozen in place. If some benevolent God did exist, it would have worked. But it didn’t, doesn’t, and time keeps ticking on, the world spinning on an axis and then around a celestial body and people keep dying, that’s what they do, and they live and they die and reproduce and the blood flows and the neurons fire and it can all be stopped with a slip, with a fall, and it’s all so utterly boring.
They swim into his head, in his sleep and in his waking hours, images of hair, matted like blood. For years, it’s Lucy, over and over until gradually she’s replaced by Sherlock.
Of course it hardly matters, as it’s all just…meat, flesh, the same dark red and it’s such a relief, that it finally, finally stops flowing.
This is what people do.
His patience is wearing thin, because his blood is still coursing throughout his veins, taking in oxygen but he is rotting from the inside out; it has been so long since he died, and the stench must be threatening to spill out of him.
He cannot make Sherlock understand, but he, they, can’t be allowed to continue. They are one and the same, and nothing, nothing so wrong should be allowed to exist.
He used to take pictures, photographs, capture pieces of time, frozen in place. If some benevolent God did exist, it would have worked. But it didn’t, doesn’t, and time keeps ticking on, the world spinning on an axis and then around a celestial body and people keep dying, that’s what they do, and they live and they die and reproduce and the blood flows and the neurons fire and it can all be stopped with a slip, with a fall, and it’s all so utterly boring.