Fanfic. The Sound of Waking Up (WIP Sherlock)
1) I should be in bed now, so bear that in mind when venturing further into this post.
2) I don't like having WIPs. They irritate me. Which is probably why I write drabbles (well, that, and the fact that I couldn't write a plot if someone handing me a step-by-step guideline). So, I'm rather frustrated that I don't think this is finished, but I just couldn't write the next bit, so please take this post with a grain of salt.
3) If you have an idea what direction this should go in, I'm all ears. (Or eyes, being that this is online... I think I'm just going to go to bed.)
Sherlock, Jen Watson & Sherlock, post-The Great Game
The first thing she remembers is the cold.
Her heart is pounding and she’s caught between feeling terrified and utterly alive at the same time.
Jen keeps her eyes trained on Sherlock, ignoring the flickering red light that’s moving around her chest heralding an almost certain death. A thousand thoughts pass through her mind, each one as inconsequential as the next, as her mind tries to rationalise what’s happening.
But there’s nothing rational about this.
She doubts she’ll ever really know Sherlock, but she can read his future actions now as clearly as if they were her own. Hell, she’d probably do the same damn thing.
A single shot would do it.
From this distance, she knows he won’t miss.
She doesn’t have to nod her assent - there’s no other option left to them.
She doesn’t believe in a God, but a silent prayer forms in her mind regardless.
Knowing you’re probably about to die doesn’t get easier the second time around.
And she knows what she needs to do.
When Sherlock pulls the trigger it’s like time stops, just for second.
It’s all the time she needs to launch herself off the ground towards Sherlock, the momentum sending them both into the water as the world around them explodes.
She remembers surfacing only to be pulled back under by insistent hands before she’s replenished her supply of air.
For the first time that evening, she starts to panic.
Air explodes into her chest, forcing out the water in her lungs and she coughs and coughs until she’s pretty sure she’s thrown up a few vital organs, too. Her throat is dry and rough from the chlorine and the lights over-head are too bright.
She’s vaguely aware of a paramedic crouching beside her, asking questions she’s not listening to.
Her first thought kicks at confused mind: where’s Sherlock?
She tries to sit up, only to be held down by gentle (but insistent) hands.
Her ears settle, accepting the overwhelming noise that surrounds her, and that’s when she hears it: the commotion.
She can’t see him, but she can definitely hear him making a fuss.
One tiny part of her brain relaxes.
2) I don't like having WIPs. They irritate me. Which is probably why I write drabbles (well, that, and the fact that I couldn't write a plot if someone handing me a step-by-step guideline). So, I'm rather frustrated that I don't think this is finished, but I just couldn't write the next bit, so please take this post with a grain of salt.
3) If you have an idea what direction this should go in, I'm all ears. (Or eyes, being that this is online... I think I'm just going to go to bed.)
Sherlock, Jen Watson & Sherlock, post-The Great Game
The first thing she remembers is the cold.
Her heart is pounding and she’s caught between feeling terrified and utterly alive at the same time.
Jen keeps her eyes trained on Sherlock, ignoring the flickering red light that’s moving around her chest heralding an almost certain death. A thousand thoughts pass through her mind, each one as inconsequential as the next, as her mind tries to rationalise what’s happening.
But there’s nothing rational about this.
She doubts she’ll ever really know Sherlock, but she can read his future actions now as clearly as if they were her own. Hell, she’d probably do the same damn thing.
A single shot would do it.
From this distance, she knows he won’t miss.
She doesn’t have to nod her assent - there’s no other option left to them.
She doesn’t believe in a God, but a silent prayer forms in her mind regardless.
Knowing you’re probably about to die doesn’t get easier the second time around.
And she knows what she needs to do.
When Sherlock pulls the trigger it’s like time stops, just for second.
It’s all the time she needs to launch herself off the ground towards Sherlock, the momentum sending them both into the water as the world around them explodes.
She remembers surfacing only to be pulled back under by insistent hands before she’s replenished her supply of air.
For the first time that evening, she starts to panic.
Air explodes into her chest, forcing out the water in her lungs and she coughs and coughs until she’s pretty sure she’s thrown up a few vital organs, too. Her throat is dry and rough from the chlorine and the lights over-head are too bright.
She’s vaguely aware of a paramedic crouching beside her, asking questions she’s not listening to.
Her first thought kicks at confused mind: where’s Sherlock?
She tries to sit up, only to be held down by gentle (but insistent) hands.
Her ears settle, accepting the overwhelming noise that surrounds her, and that’s when she hears it: the commotion.
She can’t see him, but she can definitely hear him making a fuss.
One tiny part of her brain relaxes.