Five Acts - Round Six
Five Acts - Round Six
-Just list your five favourite acts/kinks in a post, your favourite pairings from different fandoms and someone will write a comment-fic for you :)
-Then go and hunt down other lists so that you can write comment-fic for people in return! The link is up above, just click "Five Acts." It's being organized by toestastegood so be sure to thank ( Read more... )
-Just list your five favourite acts/kinks in a post, your favourite pairings from different fandoms and someone will write a comment-fic for you :)
-Then go and hunt down other lists so that you can write comment-fic for people in return! The link is up above, just click "Five Acts." It's being organized by toestastegood so be sure to thank ( Read more... )
It was at the worst in Afghanistan, where the people he lost were patients, and friends; brothers who died because he couldn't save them. He probably went a little mad, there, at the end, before he threw himself in front of a bullet without thinking. Half the time he's left wondering if he isn't a ghost himself, half-mourning and half-rage left to wander London with the others because there's nowhere else he'd rather be. Sometimes that reality seems truer than any other.
Sherlock Holmes makes him feel alive again, but the man attracts the dead like a corpse does maggots. They surround him, trail after him, but he can't see them; inevitably, their attention falls to John. It's harder to ignore, somehow, now that he's been so close to their world himself, and he can't help but stop beside the soaked, sobbing little girl standing beside the streetlamp.
"I'm so cold," she tells him, her words stuttered, and tiny, and he aches for her because she's so young. He's a doctor, and he's never been able to sit back and watch someone suffer.
"Where's Mum then, hm? I expect she'll be looking for you," he tells her gently, closing his eyes because all Mum has found is the cold blue corpse of her daughter. Sherlock's footsteps have stopped just up ahead, but John doesn't look up from the girl. She's staring at him, wide-eyed, and he's used to that, too.
"Mummy already found me, and the bad man is gone," she says softly, staring into the alley where the suspect's body had been. Single bullet wound to the head, though a part of John had wanted him to suffer. "The shadows dragged him away," she adds, shuddering and huddles closer to him. John knows all about the shadows that come after certain deaths. Soul-Eaters, his Gran called them. They don't take children.
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"The victim?" Sherlock asks, and John can't get a read on him at all. He just nods, watching the little girl wrap her arms around herself, and cough up dirty water. It's never easy to tell what Sherlock will say about the ghosts that follow John.
"She's cold," John says, reaching out to her half-way because he can't help it even though he knows he can't touch. There are so few he can ever actually help, and it's always hard.
Sherlock is quiet for a breath, and then steps close enough to brush shoulders with John, obviously following his gaze to the little girl he can't actually see. "Close your eyes," he starts, gruff as usual, and John stares up at him. Sherlock ignores him. "Think of the warmest memory you have; curled up beneath a blanket with Mummy, perhaps. Remember it as hard as you can; that, and nothing else, until you can feel it," he instructs, and the little girl actually does it, crying in earnest once she is so obviously beginning to warm up, disappearing from even John's sight at last.
It's never easy to get a ghost to let go, but children are already half-way there, and John never suspected Sherlock would know how. It isn't exactly 'relevant to the work' after all. "Thank you, Sherlock," he says instead of anything else because behavior like this should be positively reinforced.
His flatmate, however, just looks uncomfortable for a moment before huffing, and rolling his eyes. "You obviously weren't going to just leave her there," he mutters, tugging his collar up, and sweeping off as dramatically as possible. John is exhausted, and hungry, and being followed by ghosts that are no where near as easy to put down. Still, he can't help but smile because that was almost sweet, for Sherlock.
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...I have no idea about this. But you said 'seeing the dead' and my brain did this. It's kind of more gen than anything; sorry about that. HI. I'M SIEHN. also this got a little long.
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I have to say, I was pulled in by the surreal writing and atmosphere you gave to this story. I can imagine the dead trailing after Sherlock and the detective just pretending he doesn't notice... at least not until he sees how it bothers John.
The little girl... my goodness... you just took my heart away. Everything about this was brilliant. Tomorrow I'm going to write you back a fic because (sniff) this was just beautiful.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for writing my favourite trope ^.^
P.S. I'll probably write a Harry/Ron or Sherlock/John in return
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...I really really love the idea, not gonna lie. I could see it all in my head as soon as I read the trope description, and I kind of just had to write it. ehehe. It probably would have went on longer if I hadn't forced myself to remember it was comment!fic. ♥
You are most welcome; it was fun!
YAY FIC. x3
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