My First Fic in Two Years
Stranger to the Rain
Spoilers: Reichenbach Fall
Rating: G
Wordcount: 518
Genre: Gen, friendship, possibly pre-slash, if you've got your goggles on
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes began as the brainchild of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; he now belongs to all of us, as he is public domain. Sherlock is the property of Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat and the BBC.
Summary: Sherlock's thoughts on the roof of St. Barts
Sherlock was not a stranger to the rain.
It suited him. It was cold, and most people disliked it, which was precisely the reason that Sherlock liked it. He was at home among the thunder and the lightning. The sound and the fury fascinated him. Suited him. Reflected him.
No one noticed you in the rain. They walked right by, so eager to stop getting wet that they noticed nothing.
Not that they noticed much anyway.
Sherlock was used to being disdained and hated. He had been all his life. Why should his death be any different?
Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, why it wasn’t raining. Rain would make it more appropriate, he thought. It would match his mood.
John. John was his only true concern. The one person who had shown him the sunlight. Made him appreciate the stars. And while it was true that Sherlock would never commit the solar system to his hard drive. Neither would he ever delete the memory of John’s wonder. But this...this would hurt John. He didn’t want to hurt John. Sherlock didn’t want John to cry. So he lied and Lied and lied.
Maybe, if he lied enough, John wouldn’t cry. And if he lied enough, John wouldn’t hurt.
John had given him the only light his life had ever had. He hoped that John would find someone, another someone--to make him happy. Someone to love. Someone to light John’s way, as John has lighted his. Sherlock didn’t want John to be alone. He wanted John to live, to continue to shine as he always had for Sherlock.
It wasn’t like he would be missed. No one would be lighting any candles at his funeral. It would be better that way.
But Sherlock had known for a long time that his life was not one to be lived in the light. He was bound to death and danger. To darkness. To fog and to rain. No, he had long ago fallen from grace.
It would be better that no one would cry. There would be no pain. Not for anyone else. Not for John.
That was good.
And then, lightly, it began to rain.
Sherlock dropped the phone and stepped off the ledge.
It was time.
It was only rain.
Spoilers: Reichenbach Fall
Rating: G
Wordcount: 518
Genre: Gen, friendship, possibly pre-slash, if you've got your goggles on
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes began as the brainchild of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; he now belongs to all of us, as he is public domain. Sherlock is the property of Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat and the BBC.
Summary: Sherlock's thoughts on the roof of St. Barts
Sherlock was not a stranger to the rain.
It suited him. It was cold, and most people disliked it, which was precisely the reason that Sherlock liked it. He was at home among the thunder and the lightning. The sound and the fury fascinated him. Suited him. Reflected him.
No one noticed you in the rain. They walked right by, so eager to stop getting wet that they noticed nothing.
Not that they noticed much anyway.
Sherlock was used to being disdained and hated. He had been all his life. Why should his death be any different?
Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, why it wasn’t raining. Rain would make it more appropriate, he thought. It would match his mood.
John. John was his only true concern. The one person who had shown him the sunlight. Made him appreciate the stars. And while it was true that Sherlock would never commit the solar system to his hard drive. Neither would he ever delete the memory of John’s wonder. But this...this would hurt John. He didn’t want to hurt John. Sherlock didn’t want John to cry. So he lied and Lied and lied.
Maybe, if he lied enough, John wouldn’t cry. And if he lied enough, John wouldn’t hurt.
John had given him the only light his life had ever had. He hoped that John would find someone, another someone--to make him happy. Someone to love. Someone to light John’s way, as John has lighted his. Sherlock didn’t want John to be alone. He wanted John to live, to continue to shine as he always had for Sherlock.
It wasn’t like he would be missed. No one would be lighting any candles at his funeral. It would be better that way.
But Sherlock had known for a long time that his life was not one to be lived in the light. He was bound to death and danger. To darkness. To fog and to rain. No, he had long ago fallen from grace.
It would be better that no one would cry. There would be no pain. Not for anyone else. Not for John.
That was good.
And then, lightly, it began to rain.
Sherlock dropped the phone and stepped off the ledge.
It was time.
It was only rain.