Sherlock Fic: Ten Thousand Times of Living 3/4
Rating: Teen overall
Spoilers: All of S1 for the collection. None in this part outside of speculations on the future and a few ACD canon points.
Disclaimer: Have I mentioned I don't own any of this? Because it's true.
Author's Note: Part three of this odd collection of drabbles. The end is near. I quite enjoyed this section, but this is a strange format for writing, so your comments and concerns are both welcomed and appreciated. Thanks to all who continue to read and review.
Ten Thousand Times of Living
(A Collection of 100 Drabbles)
III
Climax
Circumnavigate (Sherlock)
The world whirls by beneath his feet, and most of it grays at the edges of his vision. Occasionally he will find himself in one city for a day or two with no one on his trail. Florence, Moscow, Paris, a tiny Swedish village. When that happens, Sherlock fights to breathe, walks down quiet streets. He watches sunsets, takes boat tours, does horribly touristy things. He tells himself it's to take his mind off Moriarty's network. Rarely, he admits to himself that when (if) he gets back to John, he wants to tell him a story with parts he'll like.
Reparation (Mycroft, John)
Of course Mycroft kept his promise to Sherlock, though it pained him. He held true by creating falsehoods. He remained loyal to his brother by arranging and attending a fake funeral, by lying to John Watson's face and permanently crippling his hopes.
He sent John cars on rainy days (hardly ever accepted), called him on Fridays (nearly always answered), paid half the rent on 221B. He hoped that, one day, when Sherlock came through the door of that flat and picked up life again, John would think back and recognize it all for the apology it was. Mycroft didn't expect forgiveness.
Quotidian (John, Sherlock)
John watches days pass one after the other with vague interest, only half-aware of his own steps. Just filling time, mostly, waiting for...well. He works at the clinic steadily, no interruptions. Sees a fair bit of Lestrade and Mike. He and Sarah try dating again before giving it up as hopeless. They both know why.
Bored. The thought chokes him daily. He hasn't written in months.
Then one day he looks up and sees Sherlock Holmes walk into his office, and the world goes black. When he regains consciousness, Sherlock says, “John! You're alright?” The world starts up again.
Euro (Molly)
Molly kept a little tin in her desk at work: it had a few photos, a couple paperwork things in case something ever--
But the only reason she opened it these days was to look at the money. Just a few of the new Euros, really; silly to have them, but they were sort of exotic, and she'd thought-well. Jim (Moriarty) had said they'd go on hols, somewhere exciting. She'd wanted to be prepared.
Maybe she should go anyway. Might be nice to get the time away. Even by herself. She sighed and put the tin away. Back to work.
Inculcate (John, Sherlock)
“Go on then,” Sherlock murmurs with a little nod. John glares at him halfheartedly and turns to the scene.
“There's...something off. About the bed.” At Sherlock's wry look he continues, “It's too neat. Duvet's barely wrinkled, pillows stacked. If he wasn't expecting someone, the bed wouldn't be made up-the rest of the flat's a mess. But if he was expecting someone, why wear layers and turn the lights off? The killer must've made the bed.” Sherlock sighs. “Alright, what did I miss?”
“Everything,” he says with evident fondness. “But less of it than usual.”
Pecuniary (Mycroft, Lestrade)
Mycroft could have done this by phone, but he found himself in Inspector Lestrade's office all the same, pausing at the threshold. It struck him as quite similar to their first meeting seven years ago. They were long past threatening bribes now. Mycroft was surprisingly grateful for it. When he failed to speak, Lestrade raised an eyebrow in silent question.
“Do you remember our first conversation?”
“When you offered to pay me millions for snitching on your brother?”
“Thank you for saying no,” Mycroft said honestly. “May I join you?”
“Sure. Clear yourself a seat.”
Polymer (Harry, John, Sherlock)
John had never invited Harry home before. She understood why, really. Or she'd thought she understood, until she followed John up the stairs into the flat. There were test tubes everywhere, and smoke, and somewhere in the middle of the ensuing explosion she met Sherlock.
Honestly, she met John. He smiled often, spoke less. He and Sherlock moved and spoke around each other with simple ease. This John was still her brother, but he was part of a different unit now. Still familiar, yet strangely unreachable. John and Sherlock made a reality of their own. When Harry left, she understood.
Recapitulate (Sherlock, All)
They all did it sometimes, out of some deep-seated need to keep Sherlock in his place. It had turned into a kind of private joke to keep them sane and somewhat unified in the face of Sherlock's more convoluted logic. John, Lestrade, Donovan, even Mrs. Hudson had learned to perfect the tilt of the head, the confused expression, the innocent question.
“Wait, you're saying that he...”
“It's not obvious to me.”
“How do you know if--”
The repetition drove Sherlock batty, which was a plus, but it also kept him grounded. He never needed to know.
Hypotenuse (Sherlock, John, Lestrade)
It's a continual source of surprise to Sherlock that John and Lestrade formed a substantial friendship while he was...away. In retrospect it's understandable: they have common experiences, similar worldviews, probably compatible tastes in some sport. It proves deeply disconcerting to realize that their association is not (and perhaps never was) solely about Sherlock.
He eventually adjusts. Lestrade laughs with John over oft-repeated jokes, and shares glances with Sherlock full of memories neither of them verbalize. And at the end of the day Sherlock and John return to Baker Street. Sherlock realizes that their familiar positions, though updated, have remained secure.
Thermodynamics (Anthea, Mycroft)
The car battery dies in the middle of Siberia. It is very, very cold, and all the worse because she's alone, under the radar, unofficial. She reaches for the emergency kit with one hand, dials with the other. Mycroft picks up immediately. “Help is on the way. Forty minutes. Are you alright?”
“I have a blanket, two flairs, a protein bar. Oh, it's mint.”
“I'm deeply sorry.” She understands. “Conserve warmth, cover any skin. Don't fall asleep.”
She's already shivering. “S-Sir...”
“Of course,” he answers. He stays on the line, voice warm, until rescue arrives.
Belie (John, Sherlock)
“You imbecile.” Sherlock's tone was cold and biting, but John could feel his friend's hands shaking even as he fought against the welling nausea of concussion.
“ 'M fine.” His voice came out a little slurred. “Just...keep me 'wake, 'k?”
“I should let you freeze to death. It would serve you right.” He felt arms lift him a little, tuck a heavy wool coat around his chest. The world got a bit warmer.
John ignored Sherlock's rantings, murmured, “I w's...worried too.”
There was a pause. “Idiot,” Sherlock said again, but it only made John smile.
Fatuous (Mrs. Hudson)
She knows she's a simple little thing, really. Never went to university, spent most of her life working as a secretary or being married. She's always left the big, important things to other people. She's perfectly content staying here, with her own important things: she has her living, her clubs, church on Sundays. It's not exactly a quiet life, not with Sherlock and John upstairs. It seems enough all the same. She knows that Sherlock (even John sometimes) thinks her simple, and she supposes she is. They don't understand that simple means content. They'll realize it for themselves one day.
Bowdlerize (Lestrade)
The amount of time Lestrade spends editing these reports scares even him. Over the years he's become a master of careful re-wording, finding ways to express the whole truth without some of the facts. Honest enough.
He thinks: Sherlock insulted Anderson, nearly got hit for his trouble. Stole the critical piece of evidence and ran off on his own. If John hadn't shot the henchman, the idiots would be dead and I'd be out of a job.
He writes: Consultant made vital connection at scene and assisted in apprehending the suspect, who was armed and apparently inept. All evidence recovered.
Moiety (Mike, Sherlock, John)
Mike ran into Sherlock in the Tesco of all places, in the middle of the dairy aisle. He hurried over and offered a firm handshake that Sherlock returned with something that looked like a genuine smile. “How're you getting on these days? How's John?” The questions were linked by habit now.
“Both well, thank you.” Sherlock reached past Mike's shoulder to collect a jug of milk.“Sorry, must dash. Left something boiling.”
“I'm sure John will be overjoyed,” Mike chuckled. “Best introduction I ever made. Get on with you then,” he said affectionately, and watched him go.
Gauche (John, Mycroft)
John is still uneasy around Mycroft most of the time. The man makes him feel like a slob nine and a half times out of ten. He sits there in his immaculate suits and parses out those odd, enigmatic expressions that John can't fully interpret. It's like he flatmated into an entirely different class. Sherlock's madness usually overshadows the fact that his wardrobe costs several thousand pounds, but Mycroft plays it up intentionally.
Still. John's seen Mycroft exhausted, seen him concerned, even genuinely pleased. The suits are always perfect, but Mycroft's human. There, at least, they're pretty much the same.
Interpolate (Sherlock, John)
It irritated Sherlock enormously, the way John added things to the cases when he wrote them down. That blog of his was practically fraudulent, a surrender to popular fiction over scientific fact. What began as a perfectly acceptable chain of pure logical reasoning and analysis in the form of Sherlock's own deductions became flowery, distorted drivel. It made both of them seem vastly unintelligent, though for notably different reasons. John grinned and called it author's license. Sherlock called it blasphemy and tried to avoid admitting that he read them all, even after John had fixed the most glaring errors.
Deleterious (John, Lestrade)
John watches in amazement as Lestrade moves the pin around, rattles the doorknob experimentally. “How do you know how to pick a lock?”
“Can't believe you don't. Thought Sherlock would've corrupted you by now.”
“Where did you...”
Lestrade grins, eyes full of mischief. “My best mate when I was sixteen. Terrible influence, that one. He's half the reason I became a copper. Wouldn't believe the stuff he--” The lock opens with a quiet click. Their captors hadn't tried very hard, honestly. Lestrade grins again and stands. “Right. They're probably out, but let's leave quietly.”
Unctuous (Anderson, Sally)
Anderson paused at the bullpen and did a double-check for Lestrade. At his desk, absorbed in paperwork. Good. He reached up to slick his hair back into place with his palm and sauntered over to Sally's desk where she sat pecking at the keyboard. “Hey,” he said smoothly.
She looked up, brow creased, and shook her head. “Not tonight.”
“Wife's out the whole weekend,” he murmured, voice low. Persuading.
Something hardened in her gaze. “Not tonight, I said.” She got up and left. He stared after her, stunned, until his hair fell back into his eyes.
Precipitous (Sherlock)
The mist is so thick that Sherlock can barely see a meter in front of him. The rocks shift dangerously beneath his feet and he freezes. They must be at the cliff edge. He concentrates, straining, and hears the beat of the surf far below. His fingers are going numb where they're clutched around John's gun.
A horrible sound, hauntingly mad and undoubtedly canine, erupts at his left. Through the fog he barely sees an unearthly glow, hears John shout from that direction. He doesn't dare move closer, not sure where the slope is. He raises the gun, breathes. Fires.
Nanotechnology (John, Sherlock)
John winced as Sherlock snapped the back of the laptop open and started dismantling the rest. “Sherlock, be careful!”
Sherlock looked up, clearly amused. “You wanted your data intact, didn't you?”
“Everything I have ever written is on that thing,” he warned. “I don't want you fiddling with something and making me lose it.”
Sherlock stared at him a moment. “You really have no idea how a computer works, do you,” he said in his solved-a-case tone of revelation. “It's all stored in--”
“Just get me my files.” John ignored Sherlock's snort.
Plasma (Sherlock, Mycroft)
The room is horribly white. Sherlock hates it, but it's preferable to looking down at the bed where Mycroft rests, pale and unconscious with a bullet hole through his shoulder. He is scarily still except for the slow rise and fall of his chest, the rasp of his breath. Pretensions aside, it had never occurred to him that Mycroft could be mortal. Red blood and yellow plasma drain into the maze of tubes. Sherlock feels unsteady, as if injured himself. He reaches out and stills his shaking fingers on Mycroft's wrist. He counts his brother's heart beats and he waits.
Vehement (Lestrade, John, Sherlock, Mycroft)
Lestrade entered Baker Street and found himself in the middle of a war zone: Sherlock staked out at one end, Mycroft entrenched in a chair with his umbrella, John leaning against the wall by the kitchen with his arms crossed. Lestrade looked over, eyebrows raised. John sighed. “We finally had that Bond marathon.”
“So?”
Sherlock and Mycroft looked over simultaneously. “Lestrade! Hurry, prove your intelligence. Connery or Brosnan?”
“Brosnan,” he answered immediately. John and Mycroft groaned.
“There!” Sherlock cried, pointing. “I told you!”
The room erupted into shouting again. Lestrade sat down to watch.
Vortex (Sherlock, John)
Sherlock understands that he possesses an inherently destructive personality. He damages himself through starvation, drugs, sleep deprivation-his body is merely transport, but the results of that make him confusing and alien to others. His profession deals with the absolute scum of humanity, the dregs that draw him in with criminal fascination. Nothing about this life is safe; it is exciting, often addicting, hard to escape.
It never used to bother him, but he worries occasionally now, because it is not his life alone. Even now, he cannot tell if John would (could) walk away, or if he'd ever choose to.
Usurp (Sherlock, John)
John marched into the sitting room with the tiny brown pup shivering in his arms, nose sniffing at the air, tail thumping weakly against his chest. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in horror. “John-”
“Shut it. We're keeping him.”
“John, there is no possible-”
“Sherlock.” It was his no-nonsense tone, and Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. “We are keeping the dog.” He set it down. “Right, budge up. Clean up the kitchen, we'll put his bed over there.”
“John, I don't think-”
“Always wanted a dog,” John grinned.
Sherlock recognized defeat. He cleaned the kitchen.
Deciduous (Baker Street)
The seasons changed and the woodwork groaned with the creakings of time. Sunlight shifted across the wallpaper and the trees outside changed color slowly, inevitably. Inside, feet pounded on stairs, maybe moreso now than ever. Doors slammed with alarming regularity. Acrid smoke stained the ceiling and water dripped from windows left open. In the middle of the night, violin music wafted into the street below. Shouted arguments, laughing conversations, revelations, quiet evenings were all encompassed within these familiar walls.
Baker Street remained. They always came back to it, more or less the same as the very first day they'd arrived.
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Rising Action Resolution