Fic: Old Long Syne
Optimistic bias. Knowing that the muzzle velocity of the Sig in his hand is roughly 335 metres per second, Sherlock’s rational mind concludes that there is no possible way he and John can make it to the water in the time it will take the bullet to traverse the distance between himself and Moriarty, make contact with the Semtex vest, and cause a catastrophic explosion. And yet, it is his indulgence in irrational hope that allows him to pull the trigger. A gentle squeeze ignites a tempest, and he sails backwards, swallowed by a storm of white light and pain.
***
He awakes lying in the grass under a cloudless Sussex sky. The bright sun warms his skin, and he raises a hand to shield his eyes. There was something he had meant to say. He raises himself on one elbow and turns to speak to his companion. The garden is empty but for him, and he cannot quite place the source of the hollow ache in his chest. He lowers himself back onto the cool grass and closes his eyes. A slight breeze stirs the leaves of a nearby laurel, and carries to his ears the distant hum of bees.
***
Flickering lights cast shadows around them; the pong of chlorine and ozone is heavy. John’s face enters Sherlock’s field of vision, blocking the light. Blood runs freely from a gash in his head, drips down his chin, seeps warm through Sherlock’s shirt. John’s words are drowned by the dull roar of the storm in Sherlock’s ears. He constricts the aperture of his focus very precisely to John’s lips, reads, “Sherlock, can you hear me?”
A hand flutters at his throat; then, rhythmic pressure on his chest.
“Stay with me, Sherlock!”
A puff of breath expands his lungs.
“Please. Don’t leave.”
***
Afternoon light floods the garden shed through the open door. He slides his hands into canvas gloves, noting with mild interest the topography of wrinkles and irregular brown spots. Funny, he doesn’t remember getting old. But then, here there is only now; the past lies in the hazy blue of the horizon in his mind. He is restless, anticipating, like a sailor ready to embark on the next leg of an adventure, or a child poised to turn the page to begin a new chapter of a beloved story. He dons hat and veil, and goes to tend his hives.
***
The walls cry out in agony under the strain of cracked concrete and mortar. John pulls away and looks up. His eyes are wide and his face constricts in a grimace of fear. He shakes his head slowly, mouthing words that founder before they can reach Sherlock’s ears. Sherlock cannot see John’s lips from this angle, but deduces from memory their likeliest utterance.
“Please God, let us live.”
Sherlock hears the creak and groan of twisting metal pierce jaggedly through the incessant roaring. John casts his body forward, a fragile but indomitable shield, as the world tumbles down around them.
***
The very air around him vibrates into a crescendo - an alate aria played by a million tiny strings for him, their impresario. His anticipation grows until his entire body pulses and thrums in time with the bee song. When the tune changes, he knows he is no longer alone. He turns and sees the figure of a man approaching - an old soldier, by the cadence of his step. The bee keeper smiles and lifts the veil from his face, clearing his vision. The past now lies open before him like a well-worn volume. He reaches out and turns the page.