Sherlock Holmes: Not Here
Title: Not Here
Characters/Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Warnings: This is rather dark (in the bleak sense). And, this kind of gives things away but I suppose I should warn for it: possible character death.
Word Count: 2230
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Holmes, shipwrecked on a bleak desert isle, searches for the things he needs to survive, including Watson.
Author's Notes: This was written for a prompt on the shkinkmeme , but, due to the OP leaving out a couple key words in the prompt ("and Watson") and an odd train of thought on my part (explained below), it came out a lot different than what the prompt was supposed to ask for.
______________________
Holmes returned to relative awareness hot, wet, and with his mouth tasting of salt and bile. He was lying on something warm and unyielding, but his lower body felt as if it were moving gently up and down. The part of his body that was moving felt all right, but his upper body, especially the cheek that faced upwards, felt as if it were baking. The insides of his eyelids were a vivid vermilion rather than soothing black, and it was with great trepidation that he cracked one eye (the one that was lower, more shaded). Or rather, tried to crack it open. It seemed to be crusted over a bit and more than a bit gritty. He started to slide a hand over to rub away the obstruction, but ended up gasping in pain at the searing heat of the surface he lay upon.
And it was then, when his mouth was open, that a wave washed over him. Again, the ocean tried to fill his lungs with water. Again, he fought it, hands scrabbling for purchase on rock and feet kicking to propel him toward safety.
It was this renewed struggle that returned Holmes to full awareness. The waterspout! he recalled as hands and knees found solid rock. He began crawling forward, but found the rock too hot to touch, except for the places the sea had just bathed. He sat back on his heels, breathing in rapid gulps of air through his parched mouth.
We were on a ship... he recalled, gradually fitting pieces of events together -- sifting through the clues as if his memory was a case to be solved. I was sleeping in my cabin... There was a shout, then a cry of terror! I dashed out and...!
His mind was filled with the image of the impossibly large, churning column rising up from the ocean surface, moving right into the ship. The waterspout had torn first the railing then the deck, rending them as if were filled with hundreds of massive, clawed hands. "Holmes!" Watson had cried from somewhere aft and--
"Wah!" Holmes tried to call for his friend, but all that came out was a harsh croak, like a dying toad. Watson! he cried out silently as he opened his eyes and looked all around.
Black rock met his gaze in front and to both sides. Behind him was the sea. He pushed himself to his feet and stood swaying, eyes closed against sudden pain and giddiness. When he felt somewhat recovered, he opened them again and turned around. Blue-gray rippling water, capped here and there with white, met his eyes for as far as they could see. Closer to the burning hot shore he found himself on, he saw a ragged piece of woodwork (part of the deck, a small, cool corner of his mind observed) caught up on some rocks. My salvation, no doubt, the calm mind-voice determined. There was nothing else to be seen in that direction.
Mindful of his currently delicate balance, he turned slowly to survey the landscape. From the higher vantage standing afforded him, he could get a somewhat better view. The black, rocky shore continued to either side, curving inward, suggesting either an island or rounded peninsula. He could get no better idea of his location since the beach, as it were, seemed to be only a few yards wide. After that, the smooth, heated black rock rose up sharply to at least double his height. There was no sign of fresh water, trees, or any life beyond a few gulls that sat resting atop the rocks, their guano liberally whitewashing the surface and giving off an unpleasant odor that turned Holmes' unsettled stomach. The plaintive crying of the birds was the only sound apart from the crashing surf. There was no sign of Watson.
Calm, calm, he soothed himself as he felt the blood drain from his head to form a sickening pool of dread in his gut. He may be elsewhere. Ocean currents had not been something Holmes had ever seen fit to study, but he was quite sure that it was possible for other survivors -- especially those, like Watson, who were better swimmers -- to wash ashore in another spot. In any case, I can't stay here. He needed fresh water and shade -- and quite soon, if the dizziness and other symptoms were any indication. There was no reason he couldn't search for Watson while he looked for other necessities.
With this decision, he stepped out of the water to set forth. He was stopped again by searing pain, this time in his foot. What the... he thought confusedly as he returned his foot to the relative coolness of the water. It only then occurred to him to take better stock of his own condition. He looked down at himself. Shirt, trousers, undergarments -- that was all he had on his person. Of course... He'd been dozing when the... trouble started. It was fortunate that he was dressed in proper clothing at all. A hat would be most welcome. He started to sigh, but cut the sound short when it came out a horrible dry wheeze. The sun, near it's zenith, was already drying his dark hair and heating it up as it did the rocks around him.
Here's a pretty howdy do. The light words did not have the cheering effect he'd intended. The memory they invoked, however -- that of a recent argument with Watson about the artistic value of modern, comic opera -- did spur him to action. I'll walk along the tideline for now. It would slow him down, but was to be preferred to scorching the soles of his feet raw. As for his head... Shirt? Trousers? What? The more the sun baked his skull, the harder he found it to think. While that made it clear that a head covering was a must, it did not help him choose which other flesh to expose to that fiery orb's rays.
Trousers, he finally decided vaguely as another larger wave came, covering his legs to mid-thigh and moving his waterlogged garment around him in an uncomfortable manner. He reached down, planning to rip the fabric above the knees, but found his weakened, sea-shriveled fingers unequal to the task. With a hoarse, wheezing laugh at the image he would present, Holmes carefully (bending down made his head spin again) removed his trousers and made a most ungainly turban of them. More laughter, faster, hysterical, escaped him as he imagined the look on Watson's face should he see Holmes in his current state.
If he's alive, that is, that wretched, cool corner of Holmes' mind interjected, cutting the croaking chuckle off completely.
He must be! He set off as quickly as he could, choosing to move to his right along the shore. Climbing the rocks might have been more advantageous, but the heat of their surface and his own physical condition prohibited that option. In any case, fresh running water would eventually flow to the sea and, if Watson were here, he'd likely be close to shore.
"Watson!" he tried to call as he made his slow progress. The rasp that came out sounded enough like his dear friend's name, but it had no strength -- likely did not even carry as far as he could see.
And there was another problem. The shimmering heat haze rising off the rocks made it difficult to see very far on the landward side. It also did nothing to help his sick, giddy feeling or his nerves, which were not so much frayed as burned. Every vague shape that glimmered ahead was water or Watson for those few desperate heartbeats until it came clear: a rock, a bit of driftwood, a dip in the land, or, more often than not, a mere illusion.
Water. Watson. Those two similar words steadily lost distinction in his mind, until he was no longer certain which he needed more. Even the images he used to spur himself on blended together. Fantasies of drinking mouthful after mouthful of sweet, fresh water combined with daydreams of reunion embraces, until he saw himself pressing his lips to Watson's, drawing life and water from their kiss.
Then he would stumble and fall to his knees in the surf, the pain in his heart just one of many aches. That cool voice in his mind, softer each time, would remind him that he needed to re-wet his head covering, move on, and keep his focus outward, on his search. And he would do it, though his hands felt heavier, clumsier every time. His feet, too, seemed to find the drag of the tide stronger every time.
The lowering of the sun... It should have meant something to him, offered some warning or indicated something... But all Holmes knew now was that it was in his eyes, blinding him further. Watson. Water. Where?
"Oomf!" Holmes hadn't seen the large rocks ahead of him, only noticing them when he walked right into them. Even then, the first thing to register was blissful relief from the blazing sun. Shade... He'd forgotten that that was another thing for which he should be searching. He stroked the comparatively cool rock with his fingers and opened his eyes wide. The low cliffs inland reached out here in a rocky outcropping that extended out into the sea. Here at the shoreline, it was only an inch or two higher than his head.
Rest? Swim around? Climb over? It was so hard to make a choice and the last shreds of his logic seemed to have deserted him. Rest was the most tempting option, but... How was he to find the other things he needed if he stayed here. Nausea, hunger, and a supressed but steadily growing fear combined in one uniform sensation of painful illness that rebelled at the thought of bobbing in the waves.
Holmes looked harder at the rock face before him. He placed a hand on a jutting knob of stone and lifted a foot to rest on another. He levered himself up, other foot questing for the next perch. It was rather higher than he wished and when he tried to pull himself up the next step, he could not call enough strength into his arms.
"Don't give up, Holmes." A dear, warm voice said in his mind.
I can't do it, Watson. If there'd been any moisture left to him, he might have cried. I don't have the strength.
"I'm just over the ridge. I promise." There was an unwonted mix of pleading and passion in that voice and somehow, it spurred him onward and upward. When he reached the top, his hand met unpleasant stickiness. It was the bird guano. It stank and it soiled his hands most disgustingly, but it was at least not scorchingly hot. Holmes grimaced in distaste, but his friend's promise kept him moving, up onto the ridge and back into the blazing sun. All he had to do now was get down the other--
"SQUAWK!" A large white gull cried its protest as it suddenly took flight right before him. Startled, he lost first his balance and then his footing.
With a rough gasp of fear, he fell down the opposite side to land with a painful, jarring thump on the hot ground. He lay there, winded and burning from sun and rock.
Watson. Instinctively, he pushed himself, still on his back, toward the sea. He left his trousers in a heap where he'd fallen, having completely forgotten why he needed them. Watson. He reached the water and sat in it, every part of him, inside and out afire. Desperately, he scooped up some of the seawater and drank it, only to spit it back out, retching at its saltiness.
Watson. Where? The man had promised he'd be here... Holmes got to his feet, somehow, and searched the new beach, but all he could see was the growing fog in his own vision and the shimmering heat. Where are you? He was always right behind Holmes, ready to support, to help, to heal. Always behind...
He turned around rapidly. There! Through his hazed vision and the spinning of his head, he could make out the dark outline of a man.
"Watson!" he cried hoarsely, moving toward the dark shape on the rocks. He pressed himself against the other man, feeling his heat and solidity.
"Holmes," Watson answered in a voice soft as the soughing of the waves. He pressed his hands against Holmes'.
I thought I'd lost you -- was so afraid I'd never... Words meant nothing now. He pressed his mouth against Watson's again and again, tasting the salt of his tears, finally feeling the heated touch of his lips.
"Holmes, no. This is wrong. Society--"
Is not here, my dear, dear Watson. He pressed every inch of himself against his lover, feeling the pressure returned. His head spun harder, faster with the joy of the moment, and he slid down slowly against Watson. The other man slid down with him until they sat slumped against one another in the surf. "I love you," Holmes whispered, closing his eyes.
"I love you, too," the waves and the gulls answered as Sherlock Holmes slipped slowly into unawareness, smiling in the embrace of his own shadow.
______________________
*"Here's a pretty howdy do" is from a musical number in Gilbert & Sullivan's The Mikado, which is contemporary with Holmes' and Watson's time.
Sorry for the darkness.
Train of thought: This prompt just says "Holmes find themselves alone..." Does that mean he's got multiple personalities? Or maybe he falls for his own shadow! That'd be good cracky fun. Oh, this other person suggested the shadow becoming doppleganger!Holmes, but... What if he believed his shadow was Watson...? OH. That wouldn't be funny... at all... Hmmm....
Characters/Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Warnings: This is rather dark (in the bleak sense). And, this kind of gives things away but I suppose I should warn for it: possible character death.
Word Count: 2230
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Holmes, shipwrecked on a bleak desert isle, searches for the things he needs to survive, including Watson.
Author's Notes: This was written for a prompt on the shkinkmeme , but, due to the OP leaving out a couple key words in the prompt ("and Watson") and an odd train of thought on my part (explained below), it came out a lot different than what the prompt was supposed to ask for.
______________________
Holmes returned to relative awareness hot, wet, and with his mouth tasting of salt and bile. He was lying on something warm and unyielding, but his lower body felt as if it were moving gently up and down. The part of his body that was moving felt all right, but his upper body, especially the cheek that faced upwards, felt as if it were baking. The insides of his eyelids were a vivid vermilion rather than soothing black, and it was with great trepidation that he cracked one eye (the one that was lower, more shaded). Or rather, tried to crack it open. It seemed to be crusted over a bit and more than a bit gritty. He started to slide a hand over to rub away the obstruction, but ended up gasping in pain at the searing heat of the surface he lay upon.
And it was then, when his mouth was open, that a wave washed over him. Again, the ocean tried to fill his lungs with water. Again, he fought it, hands scrabbling for purchase on rock and feet kicking to propel him toward safety.
It was this renewed struggle that returned Holmes to full awareness. The waterspout! he recalled as hands and knees found solid rock. He began crawling forward, but found the rock too hot to touch, except for the places the sea had just bathed. He sat back on his heels, breathing in rapid gulps of air through his parched mouth.
We were on a ship... he recalled, gradually fitting pieces of events together -- sifting through the clues as if his memory was a case to be solved. I was sleeping in my cabin... There was a shout, then a cry of terror! I dashed out and...!
His mind was filled with the image of the impossibly large, churning column rising up from the ocean surface, moving right into the ship. The waterspout had torn first the railing then the deck, rending them as if were filled with hundreds of massive, clawed hands. "Holmes!" Watson had cried from somewhere aft and--
"Wah!" Holmes tried to call for his friend, but all that came out was a harsh croak, like a dying toad. Watson! he cried out silently as he opened his eyes and looked all around.
Black rock met his gaze in front and to both sides. Behind him was the sea. He pushed himself to his feet and stood swaying, eyes closed against sudden pain and giddiness. When he felt somewhat recovered, he opened them again and turned around. Blue-gray rippling water, capped here and there with white, met his eyes for as far as they could see. Closer to the burning hot shore he found himself on, he saw a ragged piece of woodwork (part of the deck, a small, cool corner of his mind observed) caught up on some rocks. My salvation, no doubt, the calm mind-voice determined. There was nothing else to be seen in that direction.
Mindful of his currently delicate balance, he turned slowly to survey the landscape. From the higher vantage standing afforded him, he could get a somewhat better view. The black, rocky shore continued to either side, curving inward, suggesting either an island or rounded peninsula. He could get no better idea of his location since the beach, as it were, seemed to be only a few yards wide. After that, the smooth, heated black rock rose up sharply to at least double his height. There was no sign of fresh water, trees, or any life beyond a few gulls that sat resting atop the rocks, their guano liberally whitewashing the surface and giving off an unpleasant odor that turned Holmes' unsettled stomach. The plaintive crying of the birds was the only sound apart from the crashing surf. There was no sign of Watson.
Calm, calm, he soothed himself as he felt the blood drain from his head to form a sickening pool of dread in his gut. He may be elsewhere. Ocean currents had not been something Holmes had ever seen fit to study, but he was quite sure that it was possible for other survivors -- especially those, like Watson, who were better swimmers -- to wash ashore in another spot. In any case, I can't stay here. He needed fresh water and shade -- and quite soon, if the dizziness and other symptoms were any indication. There was no reason he couldn't search for Watson while he looked for other necessities.
With this decision, he stepped out of the water to set forth. He was stopped again by searing pain, this time in his foot. What the... he thought confusedly as he returned his foot to the relative coolness of the water. It only then occurred to him to take better stock of his own condition. He looked down at himself. Shirt, trousers, undergarments -- that was all he had on his person. Of course... He'd been dozing when the... trouble started. It was fortunate that he was dressed in proper clothing at all. A hat would be most welcome. He started to sigh, but cut the sound short when it came out a horrible dry wheeze. The sun, near it's zenith, was already drying his dark hair and heating it up as it did the rocks around him.
Here's a pretty howdy do. The light words did not have the cheering effect he'd intended. The memory they invoked, however -- that of a recent argument with Watson about the artistic value of modern, comic opera -- did spur him to action. I'll walk along the tideline for now. It would slow him down, but was to be preferred to scorching the soles of his feet raw. As for his head... Shirt? Trousers? What? The more the sun baked his skull, the harder he found it to think. While that made it clear that a head covering was a must, it did not help him choose which other flesh to expose to that fiery orb's rays.
Trousers, he finally decided vaguely as another larger wave came, covering his legs to mid-thigh and moving his waterlogged garment around him in an uncomfortable manner. He reached down, planning to rip the fabric above the knees, but found his weakened, sea-shriveled fingers unequal to the task. With a hoarse, wheezing laugh at the image he would present, Holmes carefully (bending down made his head spin again) removed his trousers and made a most ungainly turban of them. More laughter, faster, hysterical, escaped him as he imagined the look on Watson's face should he see Holmes in his current state.
If he's alive, that is, that wretched, cool corner of Holmes' mind interjected, cutting the croaking chuckle off completely.
He must be! He set off as quickly as he could, choosing to move to his right along the shore. Climbing the rocks might have been more advantageous, but the heat of their surface and his own physical condition prohibited that option. In any case, fresh running water would eventually flow to the sea and, if Watson were here, he'd likely be close to shore.
"Watson!" he tried to call as he made his slow progress. The rasp that came out sounded enough like his dear friend's name, but it had no strength -- likely did not even carry as far as he could see.
And there was another problem. The shimmering heat haze rising off the rocks made it difficult to see very far on the landward side. It also did nothing to help his sick, giddy feeling or his nerves, which were not so much frayed as burned. Every vague shape that glimmered ahead was water or Watson for those few desperate heartbeats until it came clear: a rock, a bit of driftwood, a dip in the land, or, more often than not, a mere illusion.
Water. Watson. Those two similar words steadily lost distinction in his mind, until he was no longer certain which he needed more. Even the images he used to spur himself on blended together. Fantasies of drinking mouthful after mouthful of sweet, fresh water combined with daydreams of reunion embraces, until he saw himself pressing his lips to Watson's, drawing life and water from their kiss.
Then he would stumble and fall to his knees in the surf, the pain in his heart just one of many aches. That cool voice in his mind, softer each time, would remind him that he needed to re-wet his head covering, move on, and keep his focus outward, on his search. And he would do it, though his hands felt heavier, clumsier every time. His feet, too, seemed to find the drag of the tide stronger every time.
The lowering of the sun... It should have meant something to him, offered some warning or indicated something... But all Holmes knew now was that it was in his eyes, blinding him further. Watson. Water. Where?
"Oomf!" Holmes hadn't seen the large rocks ahead of him, only noticing them when he walked right into them. Even then, the first thing to register was blissful relief from the blazing sun. Shade... He'd forgotten that that was another thing for which he should be searching. He stroked the comparatively cool rock with his fingers and opened his eyes wide. The low cliffs inland reached out here in a rocky outcropping that extended out into the sea. Here at the shoreline, it was only an inch or two higher than his head.
Rest? Swim around? Climb over? It was so hard to make a choice and the last shreds of his logic seemed to have deserted him. Rest was the most tempting option, but... How was he to find the other things he needed if he stayed here. Nausea, hunger, and a supressed but steadily growing fear combined in one uniform sensation of painful illness that rebelled at the thought of bobbing in the waves.
Holmes looked harder at the rock face before him. He placed a hand on a jutting knob of stone and lifted a foot to rest on another. He levered himself up, other foot questing for the next perch. It was rather higher than he wished and when he tried to pull himself up the next step, he could not call enough strength into his arms.
"Don't give up, Holmes." A dear, warm voice said in his mind.
I can't do it, Watson. If there'd been any moisture left to him, he might have cried. I don't have the strength.
"I'm just over the ridge. I promise." There was an unwonted mix of pleading and passion in that voice and somehow, it spurred him onward and upward. When he reached the top, his hand met unpleasant stickiness. It was the bird guano. It stank and it soiled his hands most disgustingly, but it was at least not scorchingly hot. Holmes grimaced in distaste, but his friend's promise kept him moving, up onto the ridge and back into the blazing sun. All he had to do now was get down the other--
"SQUAWK!" A large white gull cried its protest as it suddenly took flight right before him. Startled, he lost first his balance and then his footing.
With a rough gasp of fear, he fell down the opposite side to land with a painful, jarring thump on the hot ground. He lay there, winded and burning from sun and rock.
Watson. Instinctively, he pushed himself, still on his back, toward the sea. He left his trousers in a heap where he'd fallen, having completely forgotten why he needed them. Watson. He reached the water and sat in it, every part of him, inside and out afire. Desperately, he scooped up some of the seawater and drank it, only to spit it back out, retching at its saltiness.
Watson. Where? The man had promised he'd be here... Holmes got to his feet, somehow, and searched the new beach, but all he could see was the growing fog in his own vision and the shimmering heat. Where are you? He was always right behind Holmes, ready to support, to help, to heal. Always behind...
He turned around rapidly. There! Through his hazed vision and the spinning of his head, he could make out the dark outline of a man.
"Watson!" he cried hoarsely, moving toward the dark shape on the rocks. He pressed himself against the other man, feeling his heat and solidity.
"Holmes," Watson answered in a voice soft as the soughing of the waves. He pressed his hands against Holmes'.
I thought I'd lost you -- was so afraid I'd never... Words meant nothing now. He pressed his mouth against Watson's again and again, tasting the salt of his tears, finally feeling the heated touch of his lips.
"Holmes, no. This is wrong. Society--"
Is not here, my dear, dear Watson. He pressed every inch of himself against his lover, feeling the pressure returned. His head spun harder, faster with the joy of the moment, and he slid down slowly against Watson. The other man slid down with him until they sat slumped against one another in the surf. "I love you," Holmes whispered, closing his eyes.
"I love you, too," the waves and the gulls answered as Sherlock Holmes slipped slowly into unawareness, smiling in the embrace of his own shadow.
______________________
*"Here's a pretty howdy do" is from a musical number in Gilbert & Sullivan's The Mikado, which is contemporary with Holmes' and Watson's time.
Sorry for the darkness.
Train of thought: This prompt just says "Holmes find themselves alone..." Does that mean he's got multiple personalities? Or maybe he falls for his own shadow! That'd be good cracky fun. Oh, this other person suggested the shadow becoming doppleganger!Holmes, but... What if he believed his shadow was Watson...? OH. That wouldn't be funny... at all... Hmmm....