Call My Name
Title: Call My Name
Author: Alaylith
Rating: G
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Summary: In moments of greatest despair Watson calls a name. (July Prompt 15)
WordCount: 1.052
Prompt: July 15 ~~~ Fix a Canon scene
Verses: Based on ACD's and Granada's versions of A Devil's foot; original quotes all belong to their respective authors.
Author's Note: A very big thank you, KCS! It was sooo nice and sweet of you to think of me and your idea with the flashbacks was the right kick to my brain to start working. :) *huggles*
I totally love the little extra Granada did with Devil's foot and I am pretty sure everyone who has seen the episode knows which scene I mean (*hint* look at my userpic *hint*). Sadly it was one-sided, but I changed that now! ^.^
Hope ya like what I did with it; it's the longest part yet and I am quite happy with it (especially the last half; I had to set the stage first). This happens after Dying Soul and is for the moment the latest part of my story.
Now if only my baking would go as well as this *looks sadly at her misshapen and rather not-good smelling bread rolls*.
PS: is there any way to copy stuff from Word over keeping bold and italic words WITHOUT getting all that Word junk like the /style/ and /class/ stuff that makes everything wonky?
I always have to copy the text into the HTML part and then have to add bolds and italics manually again. ._________.
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Consciousness slowly returns and Watson is aware of a smoky smell all around him.
I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous.
Watson blinks his eyes open and looks up at the ceiling, which is hidden behind a big cloud of dark smoke.
A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes…
He coughs and tries to sit up and his arms shake with the effort. The whole room is filled with smoke and he can hear the crackling of fire somewhere in the house. The air is almost hot and thick.
It takes a few moments for him to recognize another sound, the sound of weak pounding and just beneath it he can hear something else, something that resembles the low whispers of a sob.
His eyes wander around the attic - his prison of the last days - until they find the door where the sounds originate from.
Slowly he crawls over to it and the pounding and whispers grow louder. When he reaches the door he weakly knocks against it and the sounds immediately fall silent.
“Watson?” a hoarse voice whispers and Watson realizes within a moment whose voice it is. “Holmes…”
“Watson!” the voice grows stronger and Watson can hear steps stopping in front of the door. “Watson?” Holmes asks and Watson knocks against the door again, too weak to answer.
I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself.
“Get away from the door!”
Watson backs away and Holmes breaks through the door with a loud crash, his eyes looking at him right away.
I had a glimpse of Holmes’s face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror - the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead.
“Watson!” Holmes coughs, relief fills his eyes and voice and he falls to his knees at Watson’s side. He grips Watson’s arms, almost painfully, but Watson does not care and returns a weak grip on Holmes’ jacket.
“Can you stand? The whole house is burning, we need to get outside!” Holmes urges and together they shakily stand.
Holmes leads them through the house, but Watson notices how Holmes grows weaker and stumbles more often. “Holmes…?” he asks lowly and Holmes grins, sweat glowing faintly on his skin.
“I am alright, dear Watson. I was just… already looking… a long time for you… I started right after… the fire started…”
And as the whole house is now aflame it had to be quite a while. As Watson was in the attic the smoke took time to reach him, while Holmes was running through the rooms looking for him.
“Almost there…,” Holmes murmurs, but stumbles after a few steps to fall to his knees. He coughs harshly and when Watson looks into his face he can see how his eyes are glazed over. Holmes’ grip on Watson’s arm comes loose and he almost drops to the floor.
Shock flitters through his senses and Watson desperately grabs for Holmes’ shoulder, holding him upright.
It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength.
With great effort Watson hauls Holmes to his feet and together they tumble through the hallway, down the last set of stairs and finally out the door into the cool night air.
I threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door…
Watson is on his hands and knees, hoarsely sucking in big gulps of air, while Holmes lies on his back beside him, his form utterly still.
“Holmes?” Watson whispers fearfully. “Holmes!”
“Holmes?! Holmes! Can you hear me?! For God’s sake can you hear me?!”
Watson takes hold of Holmes’ shoulders, kneeling over him and looks down into the ashen face of his friend. “Holmes? Wake up, Holmes! Answer me!”
Desperate fear took hold of my heart and my chest painfully constricted. Holmes was not able to hear me; he trashed - caught in his horrid vision - on the ground beneath me. Not even my grip of his wrists could shatter the nightmare.
Watson strains to hear any sound from the mouth of his friend, any puff of air or a whisper of a word.
His screams were ghastly and not even the cursed powder was able to create a more shocking illusion than this reality. I would never be able to forget his terrified screams; they would haunt my nightmares for the rest of my existence - on Earth and in heaven.
Watson shakes his friend lightly. “Holmes! Holmes!” But there is no reaction and horrified desperation fills his soul.
My voice alone was not able to reach him; my hands not strong enough to hold him. In my fear and desperation I did something that I never did before; something that was so alien and neither of us both ever thought it necessary.
“Sherlock!”
“Sherlock!” Watson finally calls, hoping that the uncommon name formed by his lips would be able to reach his friend. “Sherlock! Wake up, please!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind Watson remembers another time when he begged…
“Please, Sherlock, can you hear me?! Sherlock!”
… and back then he was heard.
Holmes’ eyes flew open and their colour was a dark grey like a storm over the seas. His eyes concentrated on my face and Holmes’ hands - still within my desperate hold - stretched out to me
“John!”
A deep cough and shaky breaths finally answer him and Holmes slowly opens his eyes to look up at Watson. They are a mild grey like the morning after a winter storm and one hand reaches out towards him.
“John…”
Tears clouded my vision when I felt Holmes’ hands reach for my neck and shoulder.
Tears clouded his vision when Holmes rests a gentle hand on his cheek.
“You called my name,” Holmes said that night several hours after Dr. Sterndale left our cottage. He was not looking at me, but he was nervously fingering his sleeve. I knew that Holmes did not like overly emotional displays, so I only shrugged and gave him a small smile. “And you called mine.”
He shot me a look and then a smile tugged at his lips. “Indeed I did.”
“I heard you…,” Holmes - Sherlock - whispers and Watson - John - smiles.
“And I called you.”
Author: Alaylith
Rating: G
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Summary: In moments of greatest despair Watson calls a name. (July Prompt 15)
WordCount: 1.052
Prompt: July 15 ~~~ Fix a Canon scene
Verses: Based on ACD's and Granada's versions of A Devil's foot; original quotes all belong to their respective authors.
Author's Note: A very big thank you, KCS! It was sooo nice and sweet of you to think of me and your idea with the flashbacks was the right kick to my brain to start working. :) *huggles*
I totally love the little extra Granada did with Devil's foot and I am pretty sure everyone who has seen the episode knows which scene I mean (*hint* look at my userpic *hint*). Sadly it was one-sided, but I changed that now! ^.^
Hope ya like what I did with it; it's the longest part yet and I am quite happy with it (especially the last half; I had to set the stage first). This happens after Dying Soul and is for the moment the latest part of my story.
Now if only my baking would go as well as this *looks sadly at her misshapen and rather not-good smelling bread rolls*.
PS: is there any way to copy stuff from Word over keeping bold and italic words WITHOUT getting all that Word junk like the /style/ and /class/ stuff that makes everything wonky?
I always have to copy the text into the HTML part and then have to add bolds and italics manually again. ._________.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Consciousness slowly returns and Watson is aware of a smoky smell all around him.
I was conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous.
Watson blinks his eyes open and looks up at the ceiling, which is hidden behind a big cloud of dark smoke.
A thick, black cloud swirled before my eyes…
He coughs and tries to sit up and his arms shake with the effort. The whole room is filled with smoke and he can hear the crackling of fire somewhere in the house. The air is almost hot and thick.
It takes a few moments for him to recognize another sound, the sound of weak pounding and just beneath it he can hear something else, something that resembles the low whispers of a sob.
His eyes wander around the attic - his prison of the last days - until they find the door where the sounds originate from.
Slowly he crawls over to it and the pounding and whispers grow louder. When he reaches the door he weakly knocks against it and the sounds immediately fall silent.
“Watson?” a hoarse voice whispers and Watson realizes within a moment whose voice it is. “Holmes…”
“Watson!” the voice grows stronger and Watson can hear steps stopping in front of the door. “Watson?” Holmes asks and Watson knocks against the door again, too weak to answer.
I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant and detached from myself.
“Get away from the door!”
Watson backs away and Holmes breaks through the door with a loud crash, his eyes looking at him right away.
I had a glimpse of Holmes’s face, white, rigid, and drawn with horror - the very look which I had seen upon the features of the dead.
“Watson!” Holmes coughs, relief fills his eyes and voice and he falls to his knees at Watson’s side. He grips Watson’s arms, almost painfully, but Watson does not care and returns a weak grip on Holmes’ jacket.
“Can you stand? The whole house is burning, we need to get outside!” Holmes urges and together they shakily stand.
Holmes leads them through the house, but Watson notices how Holmes grows weaker and stumbles more often. “Holmes…?” he asks lowly and Holmes grins, sweat glowing faintly on his skin.
“I am alright, dear Watson. I was just… already looking… a long time for you… I started right after… the fire started…”
And as the whole house is now aflame it had to be quite a while. As Watson was in the attic the smoke took time to reach him, while Holmes was running through the rooms looking for him.
“Almost there…,” Holmes murmurs, but stumbles after a few steps to fall to his knees. He coughs harshly and when Watson looks into his face he can see how his eyes are glazed over. Holmes’ grip on Watson’s arm comes loose and he almost drops to the floor.
Shock flitters through his senses and Watson desperately grabs for Holmes’ shoulder, holding him upright.
It was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity and of strength.
With great effort Watson hauls Holmes to his feet and together they tumble through the hallway, down the last set of stairs and finally out the door into the cool night air.
I threw my arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through the door…
Watson is on his hands and knees, hoarsely sucking in big gulps of air, while Holmes lies on his back beside him, his form utterly still.
“Holmes?” Watson whispers fearfully. “Holmes!”
“Holmes?! Holmes! Can you hear me?! For God’s sake can you hear me?!”
Watson takes hold of Holmes’ shoulders, kneeling over him and looks down into the ashen face of his friend. “Holmes? Wake up, Holmes! Answer me!”
Desperate fear took hold of my heart and my chest painfully constricted. Holmes was not able to hear me; he trashed - caught in his horrid vision - on the ground beneath me. Not even my grip of his wrists could shatter the nightmare.
Watson strains to hear any sound from the mouth of his friend, any puff of air or a whisper of a word.
His screams were ghastly and not even the cursed powder was able to create a more shocking illusion than this reality. I would never be able to forget his terrified screams; they would haunt my nightmares for the rest of my existence - on Earth and in heaven.
Watson shakes his friend lightly. “Holmes! Holmes!” But there is no reaction and horrified desperation fills his soul.
My voice alone was not able to reach him; my hands not strong enough to hold him. In my fear and desperation I did something that I never did before; something that was so alien and neither of us both ever thought it necessary.
“Sherlock!”
“Sherlock!” Watson finally calls, hoping that the uncommon name formed by his lips would be able to reach his friend. “Sherlock! Wake up, please!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind Watson remembers another time when he begged…
“Please, Sherlock, can you hear me?! Sherlock!”
… and back then he was heard.
Holmes’ eyes flew open and their colour was a dark grey like a storm over the seas. His eyes concentrated on my face and Holmes’ hands - still within my desperate hold - stretched out to me
“John!”
A deep cough and shaky breaths finally answer him and Holmes slowly opens his eyes to look up at Watson. They are a mild grey like the morning after a winter storm and one hand reaches out towards him.
“John…”
Tears clouded my vision when I felt Holmes’ hands reach for my neck and shoulder.
Tears clouded his vision when Holmes rests a gentle hand on his cheek.
“You called my name,” Holmes said that night several hours after Dr. Sterndale left our cottage. He was not looking at me, but he was nervously fingering his sleeve. I knew that Holmes did not like overly emotional displays, so I only shrugged and gave him a small smile. “And you called mine.”
He shot me a look and then a smile tugged at his lips. “Indeed I did.”
“I heard you…,” Holmes - Sherlock - whispers and Watson - John - smiles.
“And I called you.”