Part 6-7/?
anonymous
December 6 2011, 08:50:44 UTC
vi. Twenty-four hours after meeting Sherlock Holmes, John asked him about his finger. Sherlock didn’t even fidget as the question hung in the air between them. He just watched the buildings go by.
“Three days ago,” He said. “I was ambushed by the organization I’ve been tracking; they broke it.”
John flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. In his head his imagination ran away from him. Two shadow-y anonymous figures loomed over Sherlock and brought him too his knees. They bent the finger back until it made a sickening crack. He imagined Sherlock screaming, but he wasn’t really sure what that sounded like. He knew what breaking a finger sounded like.
vii. There was a ringing in Sherlock’s ears. He wasn’t quite sure why. In fact, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on much of anything. For starters, he wasn’t really sure why it was dark. He should have been making the connection that it was 7pm, and therefore the sun had gone down, so it was dark. But he didn’t. He just accepted the fact that it was dark without knowing the why.
He didn’t question the ringing, or the pain that came from the left side of his head. Pain, left, head; oh so he hit his head. On what? Sherlock couldn’t remember. He thought hard to figure out what he’d been doing. Everything was fuzzy; not his vision, just his memory. He knew exactly where he was in London. Some part of him asked himself why he was in London but another part said it didn’t matter. It mattered.
He heard footsteps, running, on his right. He turned his head slightly and saw John. No wait that wasn’t right, why was John running? Sherlock should know why but he couldn’t figure it out. He told himself he should know but he didn’t. The ringing and the pain ached the more he thought about it.
“Christ Sherlock I’ve been followed you for six blocks now, what happened, you just disappeared.”
“Did I?” Sherlock remembered running and then pain, his current pain forced him to stop that thought process so he did, because it hurt. He didn’t tell John about the pain or the ringing. He should have.
John was out of breath. “Let’s just get back to the car, I don’t like this part of town.”
He followed behind John by three steps. He felt slow, sluggish. He never felt slow and sluggish. Ah, so things were coming back to him.
Back before, some time before this, couldn’t have been long because it was dark then, too: he jumped out of John’s car at a stoplight. He’d been scanning the streets from safely behind the window, and when he saw what he was looking for, he leapt. Didn’t think, didn’t tell John. Just ran from the car after his target, the organization, the people whom he’d been tracking for the case.
It was exactly the kind of thing Mycroft was trying to prevent. Danger.
They got back to the car. John was still on his right; why was that important? He couldn’t remember, he hadn’t gotten to that part, yet.
He became aware of people pointing at him, whispers from London civilians as they passed on the side walk. He turned his head around, pinpoint the direction. The swinging hurt his head so he stopped.
Twenty-four hours after meeting Sherlock Holmes, John asked him about his finger. Sherlock didn’t even fidget as the question hung in the air between them. He just watched the buildings go by.
“Three days ago,” He said. “I was ambushed by the organization I’ve been tracking; they broke it.”
John flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. In his head his imagination ran away from him. Two shadow-y anonymous figures loomed over Sherlock and brought him too his knees. They bent the finger back until it made a sickening crack. He imagined Sherlock screaming, but he wasn’t really sure what that sounded like. He knew what breaking a finger sounded like.
vii.
There was a ringing in Sherlock’s ears. He wasn’t quite sure why. In fact, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on much of anything. For starters, he wasn’t really sure why it was dark. He should have been making the connection that it was 7pm, and therefore the sun had gone down, so it was dark. But he didn’t. He just accepted the fact that it was dark without knowing the why.
He didn’t question the ringing, or the pain that came from the left side of his head. Pain, left, head; oh so he hit his head. On what? Sherlock couldn’t remember. He thought hard to figure out what he’d been doing. Everything was fuzzy; not his vision, just his memory. He knew exactly where he was in London. Some part of him asked himself why he was in London but another part said it didn’t matter. It mattered.
He heard footsteps, running, on his right. He turned his head slightly and saw John. No wait that wasn’t right, why was John running? Sherlock should know why but he couldn’t figure it out. He told himself he should know but he didn’t. The ringing and the pain ached the more he thought about it.
“Christ Sherlock I’ve been followed you for six blocks now, what happened, you just disappeared.”
“Did I?” Sherlock remembered running and then pain, his current pain forced him to stop that thought process so he did, because it hurt. He didn’t tell John about the pain or the ringing. He should have.
John was out of breath. “Let’s just get back to the car, I don’t like this part of town.”
He followed behind John by three steps. He felt slow, sluggish. He never felt slow and sluggish. Ah, so things were coming back to him.
Back before, some time before this, couldn’t have been long because it was dark then, too: he jumped out of John’s car at a stoplight. He’d been scanning the streets from safely behind the window, and when he saw what he was looking for, he leapt. Didn’t think, didn’t tell John. Just ran from the car after his target, the organization, the people whom he’d been tracking for the case.
It was exactly the kind of thing Mycroft was trying to prevent. Danger.
They got back to the car. John was still on his right; why was that important? He couldn’t remember, he hadn’t gotten to that part, yet.
He became aware of people pointing at him, whispers from London civilians as they passed on the side walk. He turned his head around, pinpoint the direction. The swinging hurt his head so he stopped.
“Sherlock, what the hell!”
That was John’s voice, it came from his left.
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“Christ, Sherlock! I’ve been trying to follow you around for six blocks now, what happened? You just disappeared.”
i forgot to go back and edit it in the comment.
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