Blood from a Stone (6/?)mariana_oconnorSeptember 23 2010, 17:03:16 UTC
That night the nightmares must come for John, because Sherlock drifts off on the sofa for a nap and wakes in a cold sweat and he is terrified. His breath comes in desperate heaves and he crawls in on himself, rolling onto his side and into a ball, shaking, shaking, he can feel tears tracking down his face, over his nose, ticklish trails of water, but he cannot stop them. He wants to scream, wants to sob, but there is control there as well, restraint.
He doesn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, doesn’t hear the door creak open, but he feels the shame and the sorrow pouring in on top of the fear, just when he thought there was no room left. The fear doesn’t lessen, though, it’s as though he expands to take in the other emotions, growing and growing with them. It is impossible from a person to explode from too much emotion, but he fears he may have a heart attack.
“I’m sorry,” John whispers to him, resting a hand on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock can’t quite keep himself from grabbing onto the warmth, holding on, clinging on to it desperately.
John clings back and there is a strange sense of relief in the pain. They are lost, but they are lost together.
Sherlock doesn’t know if that’s his feeling or John’s. It scares him even more to think that it might be both of them.
*
John leaves in the morning. He goes to work and though Sherlock knows he’s worried (he doesn’t understand why John even tries to hide it when they know it’s even more pointless than usual) he goes anyway.
“Probably better for both of us,” he says, “You’ll be better on your own without anyone to... empathise with.” He smirks. It is a pathetic attempt at a joke, but they both smile a little hysterically.
So John leaves and Sherlock finds that things tilt back to normal - or what amounts to it anyway.
Mrs Hudson comes and goes, and he barely feels more than a fuzz of affection, there is nothing overwhelming.
So, when Lestrade strides in, feeling frustrated and worried, he doesn’t think that it will be that terrible to go along with him.
He has been to dozens of crime scenes, after all, and the dead don’t have emotions.
*
His cab driver is irritated, lonely and more than a little bored. Sherlock ignores him and looks out the window at the faces flashing by. The emotions are still there, but more distant, and they flash past as well, becoming blurs of happysadapathylostalonedesperatepleasedproudhappynervous.
They draw up to the crime scene and, as soon as he steps out of the car he can feel it.
Grief, thicker than treacle and sharper than a hundred knives digging into his chest, stabbing at him again and again and never stopping.
He stumbles.
‘So this is what it feels like’ he thinks. ‘This is grief.’
It is agony and he could let himself get swallowed by it. It’s a strange thought, that maybe he wants to feel these things, maybe these things that are being forced upon him could become as essential to him as the cases and the...
A hand clamps down on his shoulder and he is suddenly afloat again, no longer drowning. Determination, a twinge of concern and Sherlock knows without looking up who it is. He can tell from the hand as well, the grip, the size, the shape of it. He can tell by the slight scent of sweat and deodorant and the whiff of a secret cigarette.
“I’m fine Lestrade,” he says, straightening. “The ground’s a little uneven. Where’s the body?”
He walks past Sally Donovan and feels the sharp tang of her dislike, an undercurrent of fear and anger and, over it all, the sickly sweet decay of disgust. She makes a comment, but he doesn’t look at her. She feels so much, and all over him. It would be flattering if the disgust weren’t still churning his stomach.
Anderson is seething hatred and the bitterness of envy, Sherlock takes one look at him and points at the door.
“Out! You’re making me feel sick.”
For once it isn’t an exaggeration and he is grateful that this is not unexpected or unusual of him.
Then it is him and Lestrade alone in the room with the body of a dead teenage girl, and the emotions die to a hum... except the screaming grief, that is still out there somewhere, stabbing at him.
He doesn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, doesn’t hear the door creak open, but he feels the shame and the sorrow pouring in on top of the fear, just when he thought there was no room left. The fear doesn’t lessen, though, it’s as though he expands to take in the other emotions, growing and growing with them. It is impossible from a person to explode from too much emotion, but he fears he may have a heart attack.
“I’m sorry,” John whispers to him, resting a hand on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock can’t quite keep himself from grabbing onto the warmth, holding on, clinging on to it desperately.
John clings back and there is a strange sense of relief in the pain. They are lost, but they are lost together.
Sherlock doesn’t know if that’s his feeling or John’s. It scares him even more to think that it might be both of them.
*
John leaves in the morning. He goes to work and though Sherlock knows he’s worried (he doesn’t understand why John even tries to hide it when they know it’s even more pointless than usual) he goes anyway.
“Probably better for both of us,” he says, “You’ll be better on your own without anyone to... empathise with.” He smirks. It is a pathetic attempt at a joke, but they both smile a little hysterically.
So John leaves and Sherlock finds that things tilt back to normal - or what amounts to it anyway.
Mrs Hudson comes and goes, and he barely feels more than a fuzz of affection, there is nothing overwhelming.
So, when Lestrade strides in, feeling frustrated and worried, he doesn’t think that it will be that terrible to go along with him.
He has been to dozens of crime scenes, after all, and the dead don’t have emotions.
*
His cab driver is irritated, lonely and more than a little bored. Sherlock ignores him and looks out the window at the faces flashing by. The emotions are still there, but more distant, and they flash past as well, becoming blurs of happysadapathylostalonedesperatepleasedproudhappynervous.
They draw up to the crime scene and, as soon as he steps out of the car he can feel it.
Grief, thicker than treacle and sharper than a hundred knives digging into his chest, stabbing at him again and again and never stopping.
He stumbles.
‘So this is what it feels like’ he thinks. ‘This is grief.’
It is agony and he could let himself get swallowed by it. It’s a strange thought, that maybe he wants to feel these things, maybe these things that are being forced upon him could become as essential to him as the cases and the...
A hand clamps down on his shoulder and he is suddenly afloat again, no longer drowning. Determination, a twinge of concern and Sherlock knows without looking up who it is. He can tell from the hand as well, the grip, the size, the shape of it. He can tell by the slight scent of sweat and deodorant and the whiff of a secret cigarette.
“I’m fine Lestrade,” he says, straightening. “The ground’s a little uneven. Where’s the body?”
He walks past Sally Donovan and feels the sharp tang of her dislike, an undercurrent of fear and anger and, over it all, the sickly sweet decay of disgust. She makes a comment, but he doesn’t look at her. She feels so much, and all over him. It would be flattering if the disgust weren’t still churning his stomach.
Anderson is seething hatred and the bitterness of envy, Sherlock takes one look at him and points at the door.
“Out! You’re making me feel sick.”
For once it isn’t an exaggeration and he is grateful that this is not unexpected or unusual of him.
Then it is him and Lestrade alone in the room with the body of a dead teenage girl, and the emotions die to a hum... except the screaming grief, that is still out there somewhere, stabbing at him.
*
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