wait for day to start (Sherlock Holmes '09 fic)
Title: wait for day to start
Rating: PG-12
Word Count: 504
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is not mine, etc.
Warnings: Major character death
Summary: AU. Holmes dealing with grief over Watson's death.
A/N: Written for shkinkmeme - original fill is Here
Prompt: Robert Frost's poem, "Bereft" -
Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking downhill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Somber clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch's sagging floor
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.
wait for day to start
He used to long for silence-impossible silence in a city that moved around him, too loud at every turn, too much happening and he unable to stop himself from seeing, hearing, noting everything, all swirling in his mind, facts and calculations dancing an uneasy step in his head, and he trapped, sometimes, unable to control any of it, unable to stop any of it.
At times like that, even the oft soothing notes of Watson’s voice grated across his raw nerves, and he would snap and rail and do his best to drive his friend away.
Drive his friend away.
Holmes would do anything to stop the silence, now.
The usual hustle and bustle of the city has fallen away, muted by his grief. When he looks out the window, all he can see through the haze of tears is Watson’s eyes. Did he hate me at the end?
He must have hated me.
He should have hated me, because I couldn’t save him.
Drawing him into danger, time after time, having him always at his back, always ready to protect him, and how did Holmes return the favor?
The clouds are thick and grey-white and fill up the sky, hanging over him low, stifling him in their grasp, and all he can see is white haze, thick white haze filling up his lungs and burning his throat and he is alone and it is his fault and he is half-running, half-falling down the stairs before he can think, before he can-
Outside, it should be loud, it should be full of bright colors and too much noise, but the world is dim and muted and everyone is too far and he is running, cannot stop running, the cobblestones thick and uneven through the soles of his shoes, the air burning in his throat as he struggles to breathe, and he thinks
yes
he thinks
if I run far enough he won’t find me
and then he stops, bent over, hands on his knees, ignoring the picture he must make as he gasps and chokes and tries to hold back the sobs that are gnawing at the back of his throat, because
no
he can’t outrun him
won’t outrun him
he’s all I have left.
Holmes scrubs his face with his hands, the texture of his skin unfamiliar and wrong. Someone is walking over, saying something, but he can’t make out the words.
I’m all alone, he wants to say, but his tongue is thick in his mouth and he cannot speak.
It’s all my fault, he thinks, and then a hand is in his coat and pushing him backwards, shoving him into the wall, and he closes his eyes, takes the punishment as is his due.
The air is cold on his neck, and the wind whispers his crime to the world.
I loved him, he wants to say, No one hurts for him more than I.
But it’s not his place.
He is the guilty, and he can run no further.
...Finis...
Rating: PG-12
Word Count: 504
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is not mine, etc.
Warnings: Major character death
Summary: AU. Holmes dealing with grief over Watson's death.
A/N: Written for shkinkmeme - original fill is Here
Prompt: Robert Frost's poem, "Bereft" -
Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking downhill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Somber clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch's sagging floor
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.
wait for day to start
He used to long for silence-impossible silence in a city that moved around him, too loud at every turn, too much happening and he unable to stop himself from seeing, hearing, noting everything, all swirling in his mind, facts and calculations dancing an uneasy step in his head, and he trapped, sometimes, unable to control any of it, unable to stop any of it.
At times like that, even the oft soothing notes of Watson’s voice grated across his raw nerves, and he would snap and rail and do his best to drive his friend away.
Drive his friend away.
Holmes would do anything to stop the silence, now.
The usual hustle and bustle of the city has fallen away, muted by his grief. When he looks out the window, all he can see through the haze of tears is Watson’s eyes. Did he hate me at the end?
He must have hated me.
He should have hated me, because I couldn’t save him.
Drawing him into danger, time after time, having him always at his back, always ready to protect him, and how did Holmes return the favor?
The clouds are thick and grey-white and fill up the sky, hanging over him low, stifling him in their grasp, and all he can see is white haze, thick white haze filling up his lungs and burning his throat and he is alone and it is his fault and he is half-running, half-falling down the stairs before he can think, before he can-
Outside, it should be loud, it should be full of bright colors and too much noise, but the world is dim and muted and everyone is too far and he is running, cannot stop running, the cobblestones thick and uneven through the soles of his shoes, the air burning in his throat as he struggles to breathe, and he thinks
yes
he thinks
if I run far enough he won’t find me
and then he stops, bent over, hands on his knees, ignoring the picture he must make as he gasps and chokes and tries to hold back the sobs that are gnawing at the back of his throat, because
no
he can’t outrun him
won’t outrun him
he’s all I have left.
Holmes scrubs his face with his hands, the texture of his skin unfamiliar and wrong. Someone is walking over, saying something, but he can’t make out the words.
I’m all alone, he wants to say, but his tongue is thick in his mouth and he cannot speak.
It’s all my fault, he thinks, and then a hand is in his coat and pushing him backwards, shoving him into the wall, and he closes his eyes, takes the punishment as is his due.
The air is cold on his neck, and the wind whispers his crime to the world.
I loved him, he wants to say, No one hurts for him more than I.
But it’s not his place.
He is the guilty, and he can run no further.
...Finis...